1 - Strawberry-Flavored PTSD

"Look! Oh, look! The strawberries are in!" Young gardener Finny bounded into the kitchen and dumped the contents of his basket out on the table where chef Baldroy was energetically flattening out the top crust for a pot pie. The berries tumbled everywhere—into the dish of egg whites the chef had planned to brush over his crust, into housemaid Mey-Rin's unfinished tea she'd forgotten to tidy away, and onto the floor. They left pink trails of juice as they rolled across Bard's slab of dough, and it happened so fast that he vigorously squashed a dozen of them with his rolling pin before he realized it.

"What's all this then?" Strawberry juice had spattered the chef's face, as if he'd been witness to very violent crime against farm-fresh produce. The once-pristine white dough had become the site of a pulpy, scarlet massacre. "I jus' barely got the smoke marks off the ceiling from this mornin'. Now my crust is ruined, and the sight of it is triggerin'…flashbacks." He lit a cigarette with slightly shaking fingers. "Poor blighters, those strawberries. Dyin' for no worthy cause onna field of battle because SOMEONE threw 'em over the table with NO plan or fair warning given. They bled out under my rolling pin with no chance to retreat. And their juice is now on my hands, Finny. My own hands!"

"I'm so sorry!" Finny wailed as he scrambled to scoop the heap of strawberries back into his basket. "It's just that I've waited all month for them to ripen, and they taste so sweet and I just wanted you to—"

"Don't take another step!" barked Bard, his rolling pin raised. "There's at least a hundred more of 'em underfoot. An' you've caused enough collateral damage already." He pointed to the floor, and the juicy pink footprints left by the gardener. The imagined pain of the strawberries in their death throes skittered up through Bard's nerves like electricity. "How'd you like if someone did that to you, huh?" These last words came out of the chef's mouth in a more menacing tone than he'd intended. Before he could backpedal and explain that he hadn't meant it as a threat, Finny burst into tears.

"I got enough people yellin' at me all the time," the boy managed between sobs. "I don't need you to hate me, too." Finny ducked under the table and crawled about collecting runaway berries, though he probably just wanted to hide his tear-streaked face. "Strawberries are supposed to make you smile, not stress you out."

Bard sucked on his cigarette to calm himself, and the lit end flared up with a bright orange glow. By the time he realized it had burned down to a column of ash, the ash had already crumbled out over the table, the strawberry pulp and dough, and into his pot pie filling. Finny, his basket, and most of the unscathed strawberries were gone.

"All this mess wi'out even touching a flamethrower." Bard fetched a mop, bucket, and washrag, and prepared to start his dinner prep from square one. He didn't have time to go after Finny, and anyway the kid always managed to bounce back. He'd be his old cheerful self before teatime.

"Is something the matter, Baldroy?" The familiar silky voice never failed to make the hair on Bard's neck prickle.

"No sir," said the chef. "Not as such. Well…not more than usual, Mr. Sebastian. Why do you ask?"

"You're wearing your goggles, Baldroy." The butler stood in the doorway out of the way of the chef's mop, his hands tucked behind his back.

"I always wear 'em."

"Around your neck, yes. But when you wear them over your eyes, it can only mean one of two things. Either you are about to engage heavy weaponry within the unsuitable confines of your kitchen—"

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir. Not after the poached egg this morning. I know, I know, poaching an egg don't mean using a hunting rifle on it, but jus' the idea had such a romantickal ring to it that I couldn't help…"

"—or," continued Sebastian, "you've been crying. Has something upset you, Baldroy?"

"What? Me? What could possibly upset me? Besides you, o' course." Bard pulled his goggles down off his face. "My eyes get a bit puffy when I wear 'em, but that don't prove nothing."

"I just scolded Finny for throwing strawberries at a tree. After he apologized for wasting perfectly delicious food—which I then confiscated, as they would make for a delectable strawberry bottereaux to serve with the Young Master's tea—he mentioned a possible flaring up of your post-traumatic...complications."

Bard slumped onto a stool and lit another cigarette. "They were all innocent strawberries, sir, an' never knew nothin' but sunlight an' rain. At worst a butterfly, maybe. A rabbit. But these hands…" He held up his red-stained fingers and waggled them, and his own face blanched at the grotesque sight. "Thanks to these 'orrible hands, they're now mutilated beyond recognition, an' are not even fit to be enjoyed by the Young Master, memorialized in a nice trifle pudding." He let his head fall forward onto the freshly-wiped table and pressed his forehead to the damp wood.

"You know," said Sebastian calmly, advancing with the strawberry basket under one arm, "a particular wickedly joyful expression springs to mind, one which I saw on your face just last week when the manor was attacked by those half a dozen marauding hooligans. It was at the very moment you shattered that lit bottle filled with kerosene all over them. I believe you found it rather…fun?"

"That was loads of fun! But they was all bad men, and would'a killed us if we hadn't got 'em first. Strawberries, though. Them's innocent in a way few people are."

"I could be wrong," said the butler, "but I don't think strawberries have feelings. Not in the way people do."

"Well, lucky them."

"This isn't really about strawberries, is it, Baldroy?"

The chef shrugged. "Do you think after you've selected the best fruits for that botter-whatever teatime pastry, I could use the bruised ones for a compote? If the Young Master don't want it, maybe us downstairs folks would, with warm vanilla custard on top."

"A fine idea. The bruised berries, though unsightly, often have the most flavor. Isn't that right, chef?"

"Aye. It takes one to know one, sir."

"And I trust you already completed dinner preparations?"

"Well, umm…as a matter o' fact, I'm just about to start. Though I'm sure tossing a handful of saltpeter into the oven will really speed things along—"

"Compote, Baldroy. Stick with your compote. I'll handle dinner, as the Young Master isn't feeling particularly peckish. But." Sebastian pronounced this last word with emphasis, waiting for the chef to look him in the face before continuing. "When you make your custard, Baldroy, cook it on a very low heat. And don't stop stirring for a second. Can you do that without distraction, at the very least?"

"Yes. I can do that. Probably."

"This is so good!" Finny helped himself to a third bowl of compote, and poured so much custard over the top that it flowed over the sides. He, Bard, and Mey-Rin sat at the table in the kitchen that evening. In the light of a single candle, newly washed pots and pans glistened on the drying rack. "I like the sauce. It's not even burned!"

A smile flickered over Bard's mouth. He did not mention that it took him three tries to attain a batch of custard that did not char to the bottom of the pan for one reason or another.

"Where did you learn to make this?" asked Mey-Rin, tasting daintily from her spoon, though she, too, was on her second helping at least. "Chef school?"

"Chef school? That ain't an actual thing, is it?" Bard scoffed. "We had berry pudding in the infantry, as a treat, though we used to call it other names, like massacre pie or placenta or—uh, never mind. It ain't fittin' table talk."

"Your hands are shaking again, Bard," said Finny.

The chef glanced down. "So they are. It's those strawberries, damn them. Bruised, know-nothing, idiotic strawberries."

Finny grasped one of Bard's hands, and Mey-Rin reached for the other. They sat silently for a while in silence watching the candle stub out, while the end of Bard's cigarette glowed bright each time he sucked down the smoke.

"Well don't you three look comfortable." Sebastian glided into the room holding a tray of Lord Phantomhive's half-eaten dinner.

Bard dropped Finny and Mey-Rin's hands and thrust his own under the table.

"The Young Master heard mention of your famous strawberry compote, Baldroy, and I believe he is actually eager to try it."

The chef lurched to his feet. "What? Eager? For my massac—placent—compote? You aren't serious, sir."

"I may not be serious, but he is. I blame some sentimental childhood memory and though I tried to warn him off, he insisted. Ordered me, actually. So." Sebastian's eyes seemed to glow for a moment like cigarette ends, and his hair ruffled despite the absence of wind. "Allow me to dish it up in a proper parfait glass."

Bard couldn't help himself, and bowed in Sebastian's direction. "Tell 'im the pleasure is all mine, sir. I prepared it all on the stove as you said, with only one blast of the flamethrower—"

"WHAT?"

Bard flattened himself against the wall, hands raised. "I jest, I jest." His cigarette pointed at the ceiling when he grinned.