As soon as he opened the door to the flat, the Professor was met with an... interesting aroma. It came at him like a punch to the face, so much so that his eyes starting watering from the potency of it.

"Professor, you're home!" came a voice from the kitchen. "Just in time, too. Dinner's nearly ready!"

He set his brief case on the floor next to the door. "Ah, that's wonderful, Flora," he said as cheerfully as he could manage. "Let me wash up and I'll be right there to help set the table."

"Alright, don't take too long, now!" Faint humming could be heard from the kitchen as he walked past to the bathroom. He walked at quickly as possible while being innocuous. As soon as he was in the room fully he hastily closed the door and turned on the vent. Safe for a moment, at least. But he knew that he couldn't stay here for very long at all. A true gentleman didn't avoid his problems, especially when they dealt with people he loved. Sooner or later, he would have to go out and face…

His daughter's cooking.

He washed his hands slowly and carefully, taking meticulous time under the justification of being thorough. As he did, he heard a distant clatter, followed by a faint, "Oh dear." He could only imagine what had happened…

Taking one last breath of unpolluted air, the Professor steeled himself and opened the door, shutting off the light and the vent switches as he left.

"Hello, Professor!" said Flora, smiling him as he entered the kitchen. He returned her smile, but his gaze was drawn to the array of pots and pans and ingredients and- were those garden shears?- lining every flat surface on the counter, and even some that weren't quite flat. Two of the four burners on the stove were on, although only one seemed to have something cooking on it. Flora herself was mixing up some dark, sticky-looking liquid in a bowl that seemed to be trying to be gravy.

"Hello, Flora," he said, returning her smile. "My, it seems you've been hard at work in here."

"Yup! And I think you'll be very happy with dinner tonight!"

"I'm sure-" He cut himself off when he noticed the panel of the smoke alarm was hanging open. "Ah, Flora?"

"What's the matter?"

"Why," he asked leaning in to investigate, "aren't there any batteries in the smoke detector?"

"Oh, that?" she said. "It keeps going off while I'm working in here, and I couldn't figure out how to shut it off. So I just popped out the batteries. I was going to ask you to look at it later."

He spotted the errant batteries about a foot away, sitting on top of the bread box and looking dangerously close to rolling into a used mixing bowl. "I see." He grabbed the batteries and put them in his pocket so he would remember to reinstall them later. While he was there, he also turned off the unused burner on the stove. "You know, Flora," he said, "the smoke alarm is there to detect fires and fumes. It's a crucial safeguard against being hurt."

"Oh, I know all that," she said. "It was just getting annoying. I think this one's overactive, anyway. It's always going off while I'm cooking!"

"There may be a reason for that," he said quietly. She didn't seem to hear. "Well, that's neither here nor there for now. What can I do to help?"

"Just set the table!" she said cheerfully. "We'll need three- oh, wait, no. Two plates, forks, knives, and glasses."

"Alright." He set to work straight away, almost pulling out a third plate before catching himself. It seemed that would still take some getting used to for the both of them.

By the time he had set everything on the table, Flora was bringing out the main dish, a... what was that? It looked like a chicken, but it was practically burnt beyond recognition! And that gravy from earlier seemed haphazardly drizzled over it, although it didn't seem like it would do much to fight how dry it looked.

Flora beamed at him as she set the dish on the table. "I hope you're hungry!" she said. "There's a couple extra servings, partially because I forgot- well, since I'm used to cooking for three on weeknights." Her gaze drifted to the empty chair on the other side of the table. She shook her head as though to bring herself out of whatever train of thought she had gotten caught up in. "Well, anyway, there's plenty for seconds, or even thirds if you want!"

"Ah, yes," the Professor said, returning her smile. "I suppose I may be obligat- er, rather, I may get the chance to. Appetite permitting, of course."

He pulled out her chair for her and then sat down himself, folding his hands politely on the table before him.

"Well?" she said. "Dig in!"

He hesitated, but his smile wavered only for a moment. "Why don't we bless the food, first?" he suggested. This poor bird would certainly need it.

"Oh, of course! I'll say grace for us." She bowed her head and closed her eyes, and he followed suit, glad for the brief delay.

"God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for this food, amen!" Oh. That was shorter than he expected. He looked up at her, and she seemed to sense the unasked question.

"I kept it a bit short, since I knew you had to be really hungry. I know He will understand." She smiled.

"Of course," he said. "Very considerate."

The chicken sat menacingly on the table before them. Flora beamed over it like she would were it her own child. Looks like there would be no more delaying. He cut off a small portion for himself, knowing that the poor thing would have to be put out of its misery one way or another, or at least given an honorable send-off. It would either have to be by his hand or cremation, although, from the looks of it, the latter had already been attempted. The dish of green peas, which looked overly soggy even from a moment's glance, also seemed to be asking for an end to their suffering. At least the rolls were from the bakery.

His plate now filled with the smallest appropriate portion sizes of each, the Professor steeled his nerves and prepared to smile through the entirety of the meal, no matter how difficult that would prove to be. He picked up his fork and took his first bite.

Hm.

"So?" asked Flora eagerly. "How is it?"

The Professor reached for his water glass. "It's… it has a very... smoky flavor to it."

"Oh, yeah. That was a bit of an unintended effect. I was trying to make Tikka Masala, but we didn't have everything in the recipe, so while I was looking for substitutions for the sauce, the chicken cooked just a little longer than it was supposed to. But I think it was a happy accident. After all," she added, sitting a little higher in her chair, "a good chef can improvise in any situation!"

He set down his glass, hoping she wouldn't notice it was nearly half empty. "This is true," he said, nodding slightly. "Proper improvisation is a skill that many train for to… to-" He yearned to reach out for his glass again, but that might seem rude. "Is this ginger I taste?"

Flora grinned. "Yep! I added some extra since it's flu season. Ginger's great for the immune system, you know."

It also eases nausea, fortunately. "It is… certainly strong here."

"Too strong?" she asked gingerly, perhaps now noticing his discomfort, or maybe his hesitation to take another bite.

Oh, how he didn't want to tell her. He considered his next words carefully. "It might be… for some, perhaps. I am certainly grateful for the immune system boost."

"Oh..." she said. She seemed to have noticed his glass. "Yeah. Can't have you getting sick on the job. 'specially with the extra classes you have to teach."

"Precisely," he said in a purposefully more upbeat tone. "That was very thoughtful of you."

"Right. Thank you." She grabbed her fork and prodded around a little at the food on her plate. A lone pea, sitting on the edge of the rest, crumbled under only a minuscule amount of pressure. "So, what do you think of the peas?"

The expression on his face could be compared to a deer in the path of an oncoming train. He hastily set down his water. "Oh, the peas? I hadn't quite gotten to-"

"But they look totally overdone, too, huh?"

"Wait a moment!" he stammered, taken aback. "I wouldn't jump to conclusions just yet, I haven't even tried them. I'm sure they're deli-"

"You don't have to lie to me, you know." Her head was bowed, and her voice wavering. "I know it's awful. It's fine. You can tell me."

"Flora, wait-"

She looked up and met his gaze with eyes that were glazed over with tears. "Professor, please, I know it's terrible. Do you think I can't tell you're just trying to be polite? You don't have to spare my feelings anymore."

"Flora," he said softly, setting his hand on her shoulder, "the last thing I would want is to hurt you. I'm sorry this meal didn't turn out like you wanted to, but there's always tomorrow to-"

"What's the point?" she demanded, brushing his hand away. "It's going to be just the same, I know it. No matter what I try, it always ends up like this."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," the Professor tried. "It isn't always like this."

"Oh, really? Even though you and Luke always found every excuse you could to ditch dinner, over and over?" She sniffed. "At least he's in America now, where he's safe from me and my… my terrible..." She rubbed her eyes, but it was at that moment that the tears came full force.

The Professor moved to her side and wrapped his arms around her. "I'm so sorry, Flora…"

It took a moment for her to form words through the sobs, and even then it was a herculean effort. "Why're you s-sorry, Profe-fessor? You ar-aren't a disa-disappointment like I am."

"Don't say that," he said gently. "Please." He pulled back from the embrace, resting his hands on her shoulders. "Flora, you are not a disappointment in any way. I hope you know that, truly."

"I'm..." she started. She wiped her face in a vain attempt to brush away the tears. "Even with-"

"Even with dinners like these," he reassured her. "Because you're my daughter, and nothing will change how much I care about you." He brushed away a tear with his thumb and smiled softly. In return, a small smile graced her face, and so he went on. "You know, everyone is good at something, and likewise, everyone is not so good at something else. You may just need to find what it is that you're suited for."

Flora sniffled, blinking back against another onslaught of tears. "But that's just it, Professor. I… I want to be good at cooking. It's fun for me when I'm in the middle of it. I'm just..." She sighed. "Sad that you all can't enjoy it with me."

The Professor nodded thoughtfully. He grabbed a napkin off the table and handed it to her to help keep the waterworks at bay.

"Then, Flora, dear, I believe our mission is clear. I will help you learn how to cook properly."

"Really?" she gasped. "Oh, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She threw her arms around him with the speed and force of… well, not a truck. A scooter would be more appropriate for her size, but either way it was enough to catch the poor Professor by surprise. He let out a small gasp, but the surprise wore off quickly. He smiled and hugged her back.

And so it was settled. No matter what it took, Flora would learn to cook.