(A/N): Well then, here it is!
For quite some time I've been brainstorming a cutesy, family friendly, K rated fic to write up that would act as a nice contrast to the usual bleak angst and romance that I write. That idea eventually culminated into a concept involving two rather irritating champions to deal with if they know what they're doing!
Recently I've become quite the Mantheon fan, which is peculiar to admit since he's so different to what I'm used to. After a burst of enthusiasm with him late last year, a basic concept evolved into a full on story idea that I felt would work quite well.
… The core word being "thought"
Let's see how this goes! It's been a very very long time since I've written a soft-hearted and gentle-spirited fic with optimism and a lack of bleakness, so this is certainly out of my comfort zone! xD
WARNING: Spelling errors, awkward attempts at being heart-warming, swear words being replaced by words you'd hear in U films, non-canon inferences, attempts to make jokes aimed at younger audiences, INCREDIBLY inaccurate cooking, some purposeful innuendos that fall flat and OOCness!
The Breadwinner
Thud, bonk!
Repeated experiences had long taught the chef that having a floppy little white hat adorning your crown wasn't exactly enough to protect you from knocks and scrapes. Rest assured, no matter how many times it happened the pain caught her by surprise again and again and again.
Morgana pulled her head out of the oven with a soot-coated tray cradled between her mitted hands, grimacing as an aching pain ringed throughout her cranium. "Whose idea was it to make these things so small?" she growled grumpily, letting the platter clang atop the greasy hob with a noisy clatter. Her long fingers bunched into scrawny fists within the confines of her gloves, falling to her hips in judgement. "There should be a health risk label, or something!"
Warning: If you aren't paying attention, you might hurt your face.
That warning tended to apply to pretty much anything.
The self-proclaimed master chef had been furiously working away at creating an all new and all delicious recipe that would make her the envy of all other cooks and gourmands across Valoran, the Void, and whatever lay between. Several gruelling hours and attempt after attempt had yielded yet another round of "succulent" snacks.
Yet all of her efforts had simply resulted in the creation of eight charred, smoking gingerbread men – all looking up at her with their soulless eyes as if pleading for her guidance and advice.
That was the sixth batch of failures that day.
There was more to this than simple egotism. She may've been a proud woman, but Morgana was smart enough to know that showing off would get her nowhere in the long term. Her pursuit of the most royal of recipes came from fear; fear of her dying business, and the challenges that lay in its wake.
Sinful Succulence had once been a one-of-a-kind deal – the most unique bakery and confectionary store this side of the globe, gaining patrons from twice that distance and across realities eager to sample its famous cuisine. Of course tens of hundreds of copycats had spawned from her success, selling at half her price at double quantities for sub-par products!
To think that people were so blind as to fall for it!
At its bleakest Morgana had lost the store itself, operating nothing but a wonky-wheeled food trolley barely a metre in width and double in length. The competition gave her no choice but to move on for a new home – and a new challenge – away from the city state of Noxus, and west towards the more shiny and colourful lands of Demacia.
And it was there that she had chosen to begin again, with nothing but the clothes on her back, a weathered title and the smallest of bakeries to call her own.
She still hadn't given it a name.
Fortune favours the bold.
"Apprentice!" Morgana hollered, the length of her hat drooping to one side. She corrected it irritably, lifting the tray from its place once more. "Apprentice, get over here!"
Following a loud chorus of sandaled footsteps and the clink of lamellar upon bronze plate, a man that could easily dwarf a majestic Freljordian bear entered the room and stood at attention – the pink and white apron covered in a generic flora pattern that lay draped over his chest immediately destroying any sense of intimidation he bore. He bowed his head, his face shrouded by an ornate helmet adorned by a simple crimson plume. "Yes ma'am?"
"Take this." Morgana swung the tray over, slapping its pointy edge into her student's stomach and catching him by surprise. His large hands clutched onto it, and she released it from her grasp with contempt and smugness in her nostrils. "Bin them, then bring me fresh ingredients." she instructed with a waggle of her padded finger, turning back to the oven to look like she was hard at work. Morgana recalled something, and added to her orders. "… And when I say 'bin them', I mean the gingerbreadmen. Not the tray like last time!"
"At once." he obeyed proudly, bowing so sharply that he could be used as a protractor in the measuring of right angled triangles. The apprentice held perfectly still in this position for several seconds, only for a low murmur to come from his shrouded lips. "… Where?"
The delicatessen scoffed; he didn't even deserve having her turn around to grace him with her attention. "The rubbish bins out front?" she suggested, to which her foolish subordinate nodded with a whisper of "Oooohhh". "And remember to take that darn mask off. I don't want you scaring off my customers again." Morgana snarled. Her pupil clutched onto his helmet protectively, reluctant to obey her command at the cost of exposing his visage. Of course all this did was irritate the head chef even further. "… Pantheon, you're still here."
"Without pause!" Pantheon saluted obediently, throwing his fist against his chest while holding onto the large tray with his spare palm. After a rather contradictory pause, he spun on his heel and made for the door to finish his appointed task. With a manly nudge he pushed the door open with his broad shoulder, and slipped through the passage without so much as a stumble in his speed or form. If Morgana was a gymnastics judge – or even paying attention – it would've been a clear ten.
"That's a cupboard." she noted instantly, not even bothering to turn from her place. A pathetic creak punctuated Pantheon's return, as he stepped back out of the storage space and tapped his helmet in a conspiratory "I was meant to do that" manner. Adjusting his trajectory, he made his way through the proper door. Morgana sighed to herself, "There you go."
Morgana hadn't so much as 'hired' Pantheon, rather he'd come to her at his own accord and his own initiative to offer to work for the newly rebuilt bakery – on only a fraction of the proper salary nonetheless, which she gleefully accepted. He wasn't someone she particularly liked, as for like most of those who came from the rough and rowdy mountains of Targon he was a simple block-headed warrior and nothing more.
Still, he had biceps and triceps to match.
Useful for heavy lifting, and a draw for middle-aged women!
She'd always needed an exotic poster boy.
An added plus was that it gave her someone to talk to as she slaved away over a hot and steaming stove. Their conversations weren't the sort that you'd have a scribe scribble down and store for the historians of tomorrow to discuss, but they were something to make it through the day at least. Company is company, no matter how dull or stupid it is.
Efficiency was certainly the soldier's watchword, as within minutes he returned with a mass of heavy-looking ingredients inhabiting the top of the tray he'd previously left with. If it weren't for the perpetual shadow that shaded his features mysteriously, his proud rows of grinning teeth would likely sell for a pretty penny. Noticing Morgana's lack of attention, he suddenly announced his arrival. "I have returned!"
Morgana took a moment to turn around, furrowing her brow as she got to work analysing what he had brought her – like a fairly entitled and corrupt tribal god reviewing the offerings of his followers whilst contemplating whether or not he should smite them. She began to check off her mental list. "… Eggs?"
"Here." Pantheon removed a box from the tray, and firmly planted it onto the messy countertop.
"Sugar?"
"Check." The warrior plucked a small container of the stuff and placed it securely alongside the eggs, making sure to dip a small teaspoon into it for future convenience.
"Syrup?"
"Indeed." He reached behind his back, and suddenly procured a large litre bottle of gooey gold. Morgana briefly thought about where he could've stored the container, yet quickly found herself shaking her head in disgust.
"Butter?"
"Yes." Pantheon paused, picking up a translucent tub and staring at it with concentration. "… No." he questioned, angling it in the light to try and examine it further. No doubt this filled the baker with unbounding confidence at the quality of her produce. Shrugging his shoulders, he heavily tossed it onto the table top. "… Probably."
"Flour?" Morgana sneered, wondering if Pantheon was one of those special types. "The right kind?"
Lo and behold, with a heave and a ho a large sack of flour befitting of a rural scene plopped onto the ground and lent against the counter's cupboard compartment. Pantheon scratched his plume, which wiggled tensely while maintaining its shape. "I hope so."
"Good." The chef nodded, sparing no respect or thanks for the brawn before her. Swiping the now empty tray from his grasp, she slipped it back to where it often sat within the oven. Looming like a super villain she looked over the ingredients that inhabited the counter. Pantheon remained standing in place like the awkward third friend at a pool party, entirely forgotten as the Sinful Succulence's matron delved into her trade once again.
To pass the time, Pantheon seriously began to consider if he should ask his superior the question he had been meaning to ask for a good few days. Morgana never seemed to be in a particularly good mood, so he'd never really had a chance to set the scene. Still, she hadn't directly insulted him for over two minutes now, so the circumstances were the best he'd had yet. He cleared his throat purposefully. "… Ma'am?"
Morgana flinched and froze in place, her hands mid-way through fumbling with the lid of the rough tub of margarine – the poor man's butter. She'd honestly forgotten about him for a moment, and to be entirely truthful she was missing that state of mind already. "What?"
He'd made shield walls, gone shoulder to shoulder with the bravest men of Valoran, crossed spears with brutal Noxians, and had cabbages in his dinner for three days straight. You'd think that it'd be easy for the Artisan of War to ask, but he couldn't help but be reluctant. "… May I try my hand at baking?"
There were a few moments of painful silence, only for the woman to snicker and snort to herself in amusement before getting back to work as if nothing had even happened.
Not the reaction he was expecting.
Although to be honest, he had no idea what to expect.
"Was that a no?" he queried goofily, the brush of his crafted helmet practically lopsided as he tilted his head to the side. Morgana continued to shake her head under a chorus of silent mockery, feigning work as Pantheon paced around her busy body and stood at her side to get attention. "Can't I try?"
The fallen angel turned to look at the large, brash fellow under her employ. Her stare was inquisitive as he was thick, picking through his mind like a delicate chisel crafting ornate shapes in strings of hits. It would've been quite a dramatic moment, yet Morgana was quick to let a mocking smirk fill her lips and a cruel laugh ring through the bakery. Roughly she nudged him away and returned to work. Or rather she tried to, only he was too big to even budge.
"Don't laugh!" Pantheon grumbled, folding his bare arms across the bulging front of his apron. His boss grudgingly reached for her ingredients, her efforts to ignore him falling apart in the wind. The soldier from Targon hit the counter with his palm, rattling the eggs in their cardboard home. "I can do it, you know!"
After a pause, Morgana puffed out her shoulders and turned to face him with the most judgemental and self-righteous sneer she could muster – one that could put her sister to shame. "You really think so?" she asked, to which he nodded. "Honestly?" she repeated, believing she was seeing things – he nodded again, profusely this time to stress the point. Morgana posed like a teacher again, her hands sitting comfortably atop her non-existent love-handles. "Ha!"
Pantheon snarled with kindling fury. "I'm serious!"
"So am I!" Morgana groaned in response. She'd been inspecting the same set of utensils ever since this conversation had started, and had spotted the same slimy stain on her carving knife five times over at this point. Rather unprofessionally she licked her thumb and tried to wipe it away. "In what world would I let you bake for Sinful Succulence?"
"More manpower!" Pantheon responded in an instant, his military service alongside men of equal calibre showing more than his thighs in his manly plate skirt – she'd asked him to wear her uniform in the shop, and it was the best compromise he would accept. "We would make twice as much food, there'd be plenty more to sell!"
"With my one oven." Morgana pointed out.
"With your one oven." he agreed encouragingly, taking a moment for the realisation to set in. Pantheon raised his chin in thought, outsmarted and juked by the master craftswoman before him. "… Didn't think about that bit."
As Pantheon continued to wallow in thought – his miniscule brain sizzling enough to fry all six eggs on the counter and still have enough juice for a few rashers of bacon - Morgana hung her head, leaning against the oven with her splayed hands as she reflected on the past and present. She'd nearly lost the Succulence entirely in the past because she refused to accept help, and it was due to that flaw that she had no choice but to journey to Demacia and begin anew.
If she wanted to be reborn, she'd need to change.
She couldn't let it happen.
Not again.
The chef was already set for the day – the front desk adorned with all sorts of delicious treats and iced pastries that would tickle the fancy of any and every customer that came for business. Beyond that all she ever seemed to do was waste and whittle her hours away trying to make some sort of perfect recipe out of thin air – like an alchemist trying to summon pure gold without the Philosopher's Stone. It wouldn't hurt, would it? One day she might have enough money for another oven, and the potential for another baker to join her.
The Sinful Succulence could be great again.
Morgana took a pair of steps back, folding her arms in a dark and brooding fashion befitting of the awesome and mysterious appearance she tried to maintain. Pantheon glanced at her curiously as she gestured to the oven with a nod of her head. "Go on then."
"Ma'am?" Pantheon blinked, looking like a train from Piltover with faulty and flickering headlights.
"Go on, do it." She insisted, roughly tugging off her oven mitts and draping them over her shoulder for future use. Her nails were long and well-manicured – she was the envy of mothers everywhere. Pantheon remained frozen in genuine surprise. "Quickly, before I change my mind."
He awkwardly paced towards the counter, shooting glances back and forth between the oven and the baker beside him. His large and cumbersome hands gently rested against the cooking board, the rough marks of cutting knives feeling peculiar under his numb digits. "I-I don't know what to say, ma'am."
"Nothing." Morgana snarled, having given him this opportunity so he'd shut up amongst other things. Pantheon faced her and stood at attention, his body resembling a broomstick in its posture. She raised her hands aggressively, "And if you bow, I'll drag you out of this bakery and fill your bucket-head with water myself." he obeyed, and she pointed to the ingredients he had brought before. "Now chop chop."
Pantheon drummed his fingers against his thighs, his eyes darting left and right as if searching for any hidden predators. He had to admit, he never thought he'd get this far – he was improvising; running on empty. "… What should I make?"
The fallen angel shrugged her shoulders enthusiastically, "Gingerbread men?" she shook her head sarcastically, her brow raised. The soldier looked at her as if she ran a butcher's and had announced a new fruit salad recipe. "That is the house speciality."
His pause said it all, "Of course!" he lied in general confusion, stomping his sandaled foot once more in attention. Morgana had begun to realise why troops marched in such strange ways – they must've destroyed their knees with all the stamping they did. The artisan paused in thought, bouncing on his heels "… Right, I'll get started." he nodded at her with his best attempt at a convincing tone. "… Yep, just now."
He'd never cooked before, had he?
He probably ate meat fresh off the bone for a living.
Nevertheless, Morgana was quick to voice her concerns. His inability to cook was one thing, his inability to cook in her bakery? That was something else entirely. "You have cooked before, right?"
"Oh yes." He replied, to her, hoping to sate her need for reassurance. Pantheon tapped his chin with his index finger, his entire hand disappearing within the shrouded blackness of his helmet. Rest assured; the head chef wouldn't have been surprised if he pulled back a stump. "I distinctly remember cooking a hare on the field once!"
All she could do was shrug her shoulders. She was out of the frying pan for now. "Better than nothing I suppose."
"True, I overcooked it…" Pantheon added, bowing his head in submission. He had vivid memories of the day – the gullets of the men of Targon may've been hardy, yet even his own officers couldn't down a chomp without cracking a tooth or two, or burning their mouths. That tends to happen when food burns perpetually. "… But on the bright side, it made a rather effective torch!"
Whoops, back into the fire she went.
Licking her lips, Morgana rubbed the back of her neck with cold fingers. "… Since I'm your supervisor, I'll tell you what to do." she said rather than offered. Pantheon returned to being stiffer than an Ionian's upper lip, mindlessly adhering to her commands as soldiers often did. "Follow my every word."
"At once." Pantheon nodded.
Uniformly Morgana turned to her ingredients, her long nails running through a sugar pile to test its quality. She glanced back at her student judgingly, dispensing the first of many commands as granules clung to her claws. "Pre-heat the oven, set it to four-hundred."
"I shall." Pantheon acknowledged, instantly making his way towards the oven with efficiency in his step. He had to admit that the vast quantity of dials and buttons that covered the device caught him off guard, yet he cleverly kept his advisor's words in mind. Soon enough he spotted the number "400" alongside a knob – logically the correct choice through his advanced deductive skills. "There, this looks right." he twisted it with a creak, smirking at the ease of his task. He had the eyes of a hawk and the bite of a viper, and to him this was no challenge. He spun on his heel, the hob gaining a blue, iridescent flame as he signalled to his commander. "Orders?"
A large rolling pin came spinning through the air, a fierce blow connecting against Pantheon's forehead. It instantly bonked off his helmet with a dull clang and fell into his hands. He had no reaction to this, no doubt having brains to spare. Morgana procured a large orange bowl from the counter's draw, pointing at the large working board she often rolled dough upon. "Put that there." she said. He put the pin next to the board, as the head chef whipped open the box of eggs and pulled the first of many out from its protective confines. Experimentally she offered it to him, gently holding its base between finger and thumb, "Three should do the trick."
"I agree." Pantheon nodded, plucking it from her grasp like a thief in the night. He examined it dutifully, refusing to quaver under Morgana's scrutinous and suspicious gaze. Eager to please, he gently tapped it against the bowl's rim once. Again, making it twice. Then he decided to throw a curve ball by crushing the small ovoid into dust within his mighty fist, letting the freezing yolk and clear liquid drain into the container before sprinkling the crumbs inside too.
Well then.
"What the heck?!" Morgana spat, instantly yanking the bowl away from the man's reach. "Why did you do that?!"
He merely flexed his crumby and sticky digits, curiously stretching the slimy egg white between his fingers. To be blunt, he didn't quite understand his superior's question – he'd followed his orders, hadn't he? "I cracked an egg?"
Sighing with growing exasperation, Morgana quickly drew another egg from its holster and got to work on cracking it properly. "Like this, see?" she snarled, her brow furrowed as she graceful clinked it against the bowl's rim. Holding it close to the base she dug her thumbs into its centre and firmly pulled it open, releasing its content evenly. She discarded the shell. "You're supposed to crack it, not vaporise it."
"Ahhhh." Pantheon nodded, combing his brush back with ignorance to his clammy palm. Morgana reluctantly offered him the third and final egg, her lower lip pouting in disdain. "Apologies ma'am, just a bit of miscommunication." he admitted, pulling the bowl back and mimicking – to the letter – Morgana's feminine flourish, right down to the position of his hips.
Who said men couldn't wear skirts?
Elegance abound, the gooey innards of the ovoid plopped into the mess of the container with a disgusting squelch, much to the visible surprise of the head chef. Pantheon smirked at her reaction, before genially letting the sections of shell he held fall in to the mix.
"Hey!" she squeaked, causing her subordinate to jump straight out of his greaves. Morgana stomped for the counter, glaring at him intimidatingly. "What did I tell you?"
"What's the issue?" he asked, legitimately confused as to what he'd done to anger her. Grumpily and roughly she snatched the bowl and put it to the side, as he raised his hands in defence. "It's crunchy, very good for the teeth!"
Morgana ground her fangs for a moment, "Give me that." the baker pointed at a small bottle of syrup amidst the mass of ingredients on the kitchen counter. While inwardly mildly peeved by her unannounced rage, Pantheon quickly and obediently obeyed his instructor's command and brought it to her. Tearing it away, she tipped the syrup over the bowl – yet nothing seemed to emerge. "Hmm?" she paused, looking into it as if it were some sort of novelty telescope. Morgana turned it over in her hand, checking the tag. "… This syrup is out of date."
"That can't be right." Pantheon gestured at her, asking her to let him see the date label. He'd gone out and bought it himself – he knew it was in good quality. The artisan prodded the last two numbers on the tag. "It's out of date in twenty years, isn't it?"
The angel shook her head. "Last century." she revealed, "It was out of date eighty years ago."
Lord only knows how he got his hands on it.
Morgana tossed it to the side grumpily, never turning from her place. "Get some more."
Rightfully so Pantheon fell to a knee and began to fork through one of the many cabinets that lined the bases of the counter, leaving his superior to awkwardly pick through the egg shards - she could try and get rid of the big bits at least. Neck deep into a cupboard, his eyes stumbled upon a solitary bottle of yellowish liquid labelled brightly as "cooking oil". After a moment of consideration he reached for it, fidgeting back from his uncomfortable position. It was golden and in a bottle, so it must've been golden syrup – "Cooking Oil" was probably the brand name, like it was some sort of metaphor or something.
Practically moments after he'd left the warrior rose to his feet with the bottle in tow, shaking it wetly to get Morgana's attention. "Pour in a bit." she commanded, not even bothering to spare him a glance as she ardently stirred the concoction with a wooden spoon. With "a bit" added, Pantheon stepped back and watched as Morgana's stick-thin stirring arm tensed with effort. Slowly but surely it became harder and harder for her to stir, until all of a sudden the spoon stopped moving completely. The head chef blinked, yanking at its handle. "… It's stuck." she noted, the implement refusing to budge. She spoke to no one in particular. "Why is it stuck?"
"Stuck?" the artisan tilted his head in confusion, "What do you mean?"
"Gee, what could I mean?" Morgana thought aloud with enough sarcasm to fill a college canteen, putting a finger to her chin in mock consideration. "I mean it's stuck." she shoved the bowl into his stomach, prompting him to grab its sides. "Get it out."
Pantheon accepted the mixture like a boy receiving a hand-knit jumper on his birthday, ready to answer his boss's call with his own might. After one or two flexes of his fingers, the warrior clasped onto the wooden shaft and tugged with all the fury he could muster. Morgana examined her digits in disinterest, assessing the damage that work had done to her nails.
Snap!
He stumbled with confusion, his arm flying back amidst a gust of splinters. The two of them turned to look at what he held – the spoon handle, snapped entirely from its end. Submerged in the concrete that was supposed to be a syrup and egg mix sat the head of the implement, the rough and damaged wound sprinkling shavings abound. Pantheon blinked wetly, glanced at Morgana, and then offered the shaft to her. "Here you go ma'am."
The next set of movements was mechanical and efficient, as the head chef snatched the stick away and tossed it into the overflowing sink of her kitchen. The bowl was yanked away and thrown to the side as she spawned another, larger semi-sphere for the next part of the process. Morgana turned to the kettle, checked the water indicator, and flicked it on with a soft click. "…Well then?" she asked after a moment, staring at the motionless Pantheon with disbelief. "Get the flour!"
"Certainly!" he acknowledged, turning to their rapidly degenerating and disorganised pile of ingredients and heaving the massive sack of flour over his shoulder like a mail man during valentines. In retrospect it may've been a bad idea to get the largest bag of flour he could get his hands on, but it had been ten percent off. He thought it was a good investment – it was as big as him, and would easily last a year at the least!
Morgana picked up the kettle after it clicked with a shaking hand, the weight of its contents no doubt straining her meagre wrist. Without any pause or thought she poured the scalding water into her bigger bowl, filling it to its mid-point with pin-point accuracy.
He was pretty sure that was wrong.
But who was the baker here?
"Open it." she commanded, and indeed he opened it – fumbling with its fastening ropes and holding its neck closed between his curled up fist. Morgana took a shuffling step back, nodding at the water. "Pour it into here. Carefully, come on."
It took a while to find a viable position, but eventually – in a pose so masculine that it would put the Exemplar of Demacia to shame – Pantheon managed to position the sack's end over the bowl. He hopped on the spot awkwardly to try and spur it on, yet in spite of his encouragement no flour seemed to appear. He licked his lips loudly, "… Nothing's come out."
He hadn't even finished before Morgana spoke, "Because it isn't open yet, bucket head." she groaned in disappointment. She waited impatiently with the bowl sat between her hands, her nails tapping against its plastic shell as Pantheon worked on his contribution. Always one to inspire her underlings, she leant over and tapped the warrior's helmet to grab his attention. "Hurry up."
Pantheon's eyes swivelled up to glance at her, as he roughly wrestled with the burden on his back. Balancing it on his shoulders he reached for the ropes and tried – again – to loosen them, yet to no avail. Goofily his fingers attempted to pry and tear at the leather of the sack, pumping and tugging at an increasing rate under the impatient and judgmental stare of his expectant superior.
Talk about peer pressure.
He felt a bit nervous actually.
Thankfully those nerves would give way to sheer panic a few seconds later, as the sack's material suddenly gave way under the strain and burst open due to his bodacious strength. With a rhythm of ping, ping, ping the many stitches that formed the bag fell apart and released a large puff of flour into the air. Pantheon did all that he could to grapple with the container, yet his adjustments were too late. Try as he might, Morgana's face had been turned completely white with flour.
It didn't change much actually.
She was naturally pale to begin with.
Quite the original way to sort out your complexion, don't you think?
"You little…!" Morgana hissed with welling rage, her sharp teeth grit in fury. Pantheon's brush wobbled fearfully, yet quickly fell still as the baker's rage suddenly simmered – in its stead a peculiar anxiety as she tried to slowly back away. "… Pantheon." she whimpered gently, her palms coming to rest upon her nose. Her breaths grew more frantic and deep, her eyelids fluttering. "… I-I think I'm about to…"
Realisation hit him like a war-hammer on a small grape. "Oh no…" he shuddered in fear, the tension in the air overwhelming even for a veteran such as he. Pantheon raised his hands placatingly, trying to patiently back away with the flour sack – still spilling – hauled onto his shoulders. "N-Not now, ma'am."
Morgana's expression was terror-stricken, her heart visibly racing within her chest. She moaned with fear, knowing that no matter how hard she fought it the inevitable was coming. Her legs quivered, knobbly knees knocking together like the immersive soundtrack of a classic horror film. "P-Pantheon…" she mewled for comfort, trying to ignore the salty tears welling in her eyes. "Please…"
Sweat was pouring off Pantheon's brow – no doubt if he removed his helmet he'd have enough water to fill an aquarium. He tried to maintain eye-contact, doing all that he could to guide his fearful boss. No one would be left behind; part of the code he'd honoured in Targon. "Hold on." he whispered calmly, "I beg of you."
"I…" Morgana shuddered, her body buckling as the overwhelming feeling took control of her. She was at the point of no return now, and no amount of effort could save them from what was about to happen. Her waist gyrated in one last display of defiance, "… Can't…!"
Ah!
"Oh."
Ahh!
"Oh dear."
Achoo!
Eardrums and windows for miles around burst in unison as the shattering sneeze echoed throughout the bakery, even the mighty Pantheon fumbling for a grip on the flour sack as he struggled to keep his footing. Morgana covered her ashen face in shame, trying to ignore the powdery mist pouring from the bag's neck as it flopped left and right. More and more flour burst from it, coating the kitchen – and the twin bakers – in a thick layer of dust.
By the time Pantheon finally regained control and tamed the disobedient beast, the damage had already been done – the two of them white from head to toe, as if they'd seen a ghost and promptly jumped out of their shoes. The sack was practically empty as the two stood in a forlorn silence, dangling from the warrior's hand and gently floating in the wind.
Pantheon blinked, a puff of smoke exiting from his helmet. "… I'm sorry."
Morgana nodded bluntly, at her wit's end. "… You will be."
Exhausted and withdrawn, Morgana lazily limped for the counter as Pantheon calmly brushed his forearms against the plume atop his helm – a convenience and a half if she'd ever seen one. Without the love she tended to show in her craft, the head chef bunged the two concoctions together in a single bowl. They were nearly done here; she had that to look forward to. Roughly she shoved the bowl into Pantheon's hands, who obediently tended to the mixing of the gloop.
He made sure to use a metal spoon this time.
At least that wouldn't bend.
… Much.
Somehow Pantheon's efforts managed to form the strange elixir of ingredients into a mouldable consistency without the usual step of baking. She'd have to skip an entire section of the cooking process with that in mind, which usually wasn't the best of signs.
"Put i- Puh puh!" Morgana sputtered dryly, licking her lips of any clingy flour eager to ruin her day just a little bit more. Spitting in a manner best described as "lady-like", she tried again. "Put it there."
Pantheon gently tipped the bowl over the working board as his superior commanded, and after a few moments of admittedly awkward silence a blobby semi-sphere wriggled free of the container and slapped onto the slab with an obscene squelch. He glanced at Morgana, finding the substance's rippling texture strangely repelling and offensive to the eye. "Is that supposed to happen?"
She forced a rolling pin into his hands, notably trying to keep a safe distance from the gurgling glob. "It's supposed to be water." she pointed out dryly, prodding his shoulder encouragingly. "Now you knead it."
Pantheon spun the pin in his hands like a trained weapon, patting its end against his palm testingly. "Yes?" he replied, a raised eyebrow no doubt evident in his tone. It was obvious that the instrument was important, why else would she give it to him? "But what do I do with it?"
Quickly she swiped the rolling pin from his hands, wondering if it was even safe to give the thick-skulled mongrel something blunt to play with. "Knead it!" she growled with emphasis, turning to the sink to get some hot water running for him. Morgana plucked some hand sanitiser and soap from the window sill. "Grab it and roll it!"
Like a dog with his collar cut loose at a greyhound track he instantly began to mangle and wrestle with the dough heroically, finding it surprisingly entertaining to knead and work with the peculiar substance – its unsightly resistance doing wonders for his shoulders, fingers and gluts. Inevitably he ended up absolutely drizzled in goo, promptly turning to Morgana – who was still facing the sink, sloshing the steaming water about – like a child in need of an adult. "That felt energising!"
Morgana didn't want to hazard a look. She could feel the inevitable looming over her shoulder. "… You're supposed to wash your hands first."
"Oh, I see." he nodded with embarrassment, waddling over on itchy soles to the sink. By his superior's side he quickly dipped his palms into the scorching depths, his fists shielded from the heat by the make-shift dough mittens that encased his hands. He raised his chin proudly, hoping to look awesome in the glare of the kitchen light. "There we are, ma'am!"
Terror instantly filled her eyes as he reached for the plug chain, the very real thought of scandalous bills and heavy spending clutching at the back of her brain. "I'm not paying for a plumber!" Morgana exclaimed tightly, grabbing him by the forearms and yanking his palms away. "Stop that!"
The warrior flexed his fingers in discomfort, flicking soggy dough into her face as a side effect. "A towel perhaps?" he suggested, his eyes darting left and right in search for his quarry. A striped one strung upon a drawer handle picked his interest, which he grabbed for in an instant - completely butchering and staining it in the process. "Ahh, much better."
He wasn't even finished as she snatched the towel from him, examining it between her fingers as if it were her fallen colleague on the battlefield. It almost looked like someone had been dragging it behind them on a busy street during a stormy day, coating it in wet and brown beyond repair. "Just…" she exhaled heavily, glaring at the result of his efforts. Bringing the rolling pin to bear she quickly got to work at flattening it, not even sparing him a glance. "Get a tray… Really."
Pantheon paused with concern, only to quietly obey her commands as he often did. Rest assured, she was glad to have a moment of peace as she roughly spread the dough upon the board. The man from Targon watched on as she continued her craft, his red eyes watching the evolution of the sub-par work unfold as she pressed man-like shapes into the pastry with plastic frames. "Is it ready to bake?"
"As ready as I can make it." she eventually replied, too lost in her own world to bother speaking to him. The fallen angel honestly wondered if she could effectively salvage it from that state it was in – she'd need a charity fund at this rate, and even that would need government funding. Soon enough she abandoned it, holding up the sides of her dress as she tried to step over the many patches of slippery flour on the kitchen floor. She shook off her shoes with discomfort – she could feel the stuff rolling about in her socks. "… Bung it in, and clean up this."
He swung the door open and threw it in with controlled strength – not a single wave of heat rubbing against his wrists as he did so. The artisan had been working up quite the sweat since he'd began his work with Morgana today, so that was probably why. Standing and closing the oven in one slick movement, he folded his broad arms and nodded at his superior in triumph. Within an instant his leader forced a mop and bucket into his hands, her own pair held steady at her side.
"You heard what I said."
The next fifteen minutes were generally rather peaceful, not a single instance of clumsiness or stupidity ruining the moment as they mopped away together. Pantheon could be a highly efficient worker at times, providing he was doing something that required no thought process whatsoever – he was an artisan of war, not of cuisine after all. Morgana soon stood straight with her mop in hand, wiping her dripping brow with the cool back of her hand. "I'm glad that's done."
Pantheon almost looked like he was doing a strange form of bowls on skates as he slid across the floor on the flats of his heels, buffing and scrubbing the floor with frantic motions of his broom - never tiring as he left lines of spotlessness in his wake. Morgana smirked gladly at his display, leaning against the hob to watch the ongoing hilarity – only to hop back and yelp with sudden searing agony. Pantheon froze mid-mop, continuing to slide like a statue on a motor. He could see a rising black smoke emitting from Morgana's behind. "What's the matter, ma'am?"
She'd always wanted to have a "smoking" bottom, but never had she meant it quite like this. Morgana hissed in pain, a large grimace filling her features as she turned to solve the cause of her injury. "The darn hob's…!" the baker noticed, spotting the roaring flame of the oven top. That didn't make sense at all, which she promptly pointed out. "What?" she snarled, glancing at the stove's many ignition nobs. Throughout the queue of dials sat the hob on 400 – and the oven on a measly 0. "Oh you've got to be joking."
The subordinate found his gaze drawn to his superior's steaming derriere, yet he was quick to look away – his respect for the woman overwhelming his base curiosity. He tried to maintain eye-contact; it wasn't his fault that her rear was so eye-catching. "Ma'am?"
With a thumb adept at screwing in candles, Morgana turned the main oven's heat all the way up to ludicrous levels, aiming to try and catch up on the time that they'd missed. "You didn't turn the oven on, you idiot!" she spat, flopping onto her hands and knees to stare at the stone cold gingerbread men as if she was going through a file of prisoners with a witness. "Cook, cook, come on."
In a sudden burst of rush and adrenaline Morgana rose to her feet and fumbled with her implements, leaving a rather befuddled Pantheon to furrow his brow at yet another blunt insult. Vigilantly he fell to a knee and stared through the translucent oven glass, watching the rank of dough-men in all their glory. Rest assured; it did cause him to make a double take when they all ignited into flames in sudden unison. He turned to stare at the still smoking back of the head chef, who remained deeply buried into her work. "Ma'am, there aren't many ways to tell you this." he said. "But they're on fire."
That grabbed her attention.
Trailing mist in her wake, Morgana threw herself to the floor and nudged her student away, glaring through the thick glass with anger in her pupils. "How in the world?!" she spat in genuine confusion, the science behind what had just happened making about as much sense as the artisan's pride. Darting up for the counter she pulled down her mitts. "How does that even work!?"
Morgana threw the oven open in panic, a large puff of smoke billowing from the scorching confines of the cooker. Quickly slipping on one of the mitts, she grabbed for the front end of the tray and dragged it out – her skinny and weak wrist wibbly and wobbly as she tried her best to keep it balanced. The pair both moved in slow unison as they rose to a stand, whimpering and murmuring with worry.
"Don't drop it!" Pantheon advised, his arms spread ready in the case that the tray – or his boss, mind - fell. "Be careful!"
"I am being careful! You can see that I'm being careful!" Morgana growled, the doused gingerbread men sliding across the tray only for her to correct its balance. "Gee, and I thought I was supposed to drop it!"
The pair swayed from side to side as if conducting a bizarre dance, trying their best to keep the fruits of their labours from falling to their bitter end upon the bleak kitchen floor. With a final burst of strength Morgana set the tray down atop the counter, not a single one of the pastries having been lost of the voyage.
But it wasn't time to celebrate. Still the oven steamed and smoked, as Morgana backpedalled and spun her stiff wrist. "Close it!" she commanded furiously, trying to bat away at the blackness before it consumed the both of them. Pantheon nodded in understanding, before scurrying away for the cupboard door and making to slam it shut. Morgana snarled with disbelief, pointing at the stove's door with an angry type of enthusiasm about her. "The oven!"
Diving back towards her he grasped onto the oven door, slamming it closed with a single tug of his burly arms. A chorus of coughs and sputters from the head chef punctuated the gradual settling smoke, as the pair stood solemnly before the casualties of the day. Morgana loomed over the crumbly and deformed gingerbread; each charred and burnt beyond recognition – one in particular resembling the sort of monstrosity that tales were told of at taverns in Bilgewater on rainy nights.
The Great Gingerbread Beast of the Briny Depths.
Had a peculiar ring to it.
After a moment of mourning, an eager Pantheon gently nudged past his superior to place a dollop of white icing in the shape of a star upon one of the victims, hoping to brighten up its otherwise blackened state. Morgana shot a glare at him with the speed and fury of a round of buckshot, prompting him to glance back innocently.
"… The first bite is with the eye?"
All that got for a response was a long, drawn-out sigh. "This is just laughable." she growled harshly, her nostrils flaring with disgust at the warrior's presence. None of this mess would've happened if the Artisan had kept to his place, yet she'd gone ahead and given the fool a chance to demonstrate his ineptitude. "I don't know why I even trusted you."
Pantheon raised his chin expectantly, ready to receive her well-deserved fury. "I tried my best, ma'am." he pointed out, standing straight at full attention. He'd given the talk to plenty of soldiers who'd disobeyed his command – it'd been years since he'd been the one on the step. "That's all I can give."
"I know." she sighed, holding her breath. "And that's the problem." the stench of the concoction could easily bring children to tears. She'd need to go through the kitchen with a canary before opening it again, just in case. Licking her lips, her critical glare strengthened. "You're just so useless."
Pantheon remained unflinching, dauntless despite her cruel words. "I intend to learn."
"You won't." Morgana swept her bony palms over the simmering tray, trying to pacify the never-ending mist. "People like you always think they can take anything on." she furrowed her brow, hoping that her idiot of a pupil would pick up something of use from this experience. "But you know, sometimes you just can't."
He was speechless.
Good.
Morgana pressed the assault bitterly, standing against the ashen counter with a certain degree of arrogance to her posture. "Tell me something." she asked, "Why do you even try?" the angel stepped forward aggressively, leaning towards him – trying all that she could to prompt a reaction. "Haven't you realised by now that you can't do it?"
Still no response.
He simply stood at attention.
"I don't even know why I bothered accepting you, even on half pay." she thought aloud, turning away from him with a groan of dissatisfaction. Snatching the tray up loudly, she barged past him and made for the bin – realisation of the damages swiftly dawning on her. "If anything, I'll have to pay triple in the long run!"
Lazily she began to tip them, discarding any evidence of the misadventures that had just transpired between them. The darn things almost seemed to cling onto the board, as if they'd formed a makeshift adhesive over the course of the past few minutes. Morgana merely shook harder, eager to be rid of them.
Suddenly Pantheon made a move, firmly grasping onto her wrist – stopping her motions and saving those pastries that hadn't yet fallen. Morgana glared at him with irritation as he gently pried the tray from her grasp, returning it to the counter from whence it came. The baker watched on with confusion as he placed each and every deformed gingerbread man that remained onto a serving platter, one by one, before obediently taking the tray to the sink to dip it within boiling water.
She continued to glare at him through glasses fogged with spite, watching as he slipped on her marigolds elastically and soaked a sponge in bubbling liquid before squeezing it between his fingers. Morgana wiped those metaphorical glasses against her dress, trying to be rid of the anger and misled fury – she was grateful that he was tending to the tray; it would take ages for her to try and scrub away at the stains. "Why do you want to become a baker?" she enquired a tad bit more jovially this time, with emphasis on the word 'tad'. Pantheon rubbed roughly, easily ridding the tray of its marks with unmatched efficiency. That was new. "… Pantheon?" she called in lack of answer, only to return to her usual grumpiness. "Answer me."
Pantheon paused for a moment, exhaling through the slit of his ornate helmet. "I come from Mount Targon, ma'am." he reminded, quickly returning to work. Those spiralling mountains were a peculiar place to live – to a Demacian or Noxian, it would practically be a new world entirely. "Have you ever been there? It's a beautiful place."
"No." Morgana replied with a shiver, trying to hide her surprise at his sudden speech – and the strange familiarity to his voice. Her complete monotone gave this away in an instant. "I haven't."
"We can't grow crops back at home." he said "It's too high up – little can grow." Pantheon sighed in reflection, memories of his youth flooding his mind's eye. It was always tragic to be a victim of circumstance. "When I was a boy, all I ever ate was what my father and brothers could scavenge on the hunt."
Strangely enough Morgana found herself listening intently to his tale, her large ears fixed on the proud voice of the warrior at work. To be honest she'd never even considered Pantheon beyond a lump of muscle that could do her dirty work – it was hard to believe that the faceless man had a youth.
Yet it was getting easier with every moment.
Everyone has a story behind them.
A tale to tell.
"Sometimes they'd return with nothing." Pantheon tilted his head as if turning to her, keeping his body and gaze fixed on his task. "Or the inclines would be too harsh… Or something." he fished for more water, squeezing the sponge and letting suds drool over his arms. "We often went hungry for days."
Targon was becoming more and more bleak as its situation was revealed by someone who'd experienced it all first hand. Perhaps a large share of its people chose to become warriors not because they yearned for battle and carnage, but rather because it was the only way to get food? Had Pantheon chosen his profession out of patriotism? Out of bloodlust? Or out of necessity, in order to afford the means to get what his family needed?
Pantheon spotted her troubled expression, and was quick to offer her closure. "I may be a soldier, ma'am." he exhaled dryly, critically examining the shine of the tray before submerging it once more. "But since the day I was born I longed to become a baker." her student's eyes almost bore a mischievous glint as he spoke his heart, glad that he could expose the truth to someone who wouldn't judge him like his commanders back home at Targon. "Someone who can provide food and merriment to everyone, regardless of creed!"
She looked at the platter beside her, its disorganised clutter of gingerbread bearing a whole new meaning in this light. That's why he'd saved the food; he couldn't bear to waste anything that was edible, even to a moderate level.
Yet still she struggled to understand his dreams – his pursuit of culinary mastery seeming just too unreal to be possible in her admittedly cynical view. Satisfied with his work for the moment, Pantheon carefully placed the tray on the draining board to let it gradually dry with time. Without pause Morgana took up a stance beside him, whipping out her towel and getting to work with drying it manually.
Not something she'd do on a normal day.
But this hadn't been a normal day, had it?
The artisan stared at her in surprise, looking over his shoulder to spot the platter – undisturbed, and left in peace. Pulling at the plug he drained the sink, tugging off the marigolds and slapping them over his shoulder. "I've never been a good cook." he admitted – not that he needed to, with how evident it was. "But there's no point in wallowing in doubt, ma'am." he reminded, glancing down at her. She didn't turn to acknowledge him, but it was clear that she was all ears. There was a lesson to be had here, somewhere or other. "Even trying your hardest doesn't guarantee success."
So keep going.
Effort and luck are one of the same.
She probably wasn't the first person who'd told him to give up. She understood now – he hadn't heeded her words because he outright refused to let her insults get the better of him. A man from Targon was naturally stubborn to a fault.
Yet he'd turned that 'fault' into an honest, respectable trait.
Pantheon stared at her curiously, tilting his head at her thoughtful expression. His superior seemed to be a puzzle with half of its pieces missing, wrapped inside an enigma, shrouded in foreign riddles, and laced with gentle lashings of charm and irritation – he could never quite work out what she was thinking.
Morgana noticed his stare, and with a return to the usual format she took up the dried tray and swung it into his stomach gently. Pantheon reeled back in surprise, leaning forward with a wince and a subtle "Ow" to accommodate it.
"Having a heartwarming moment with your boss isn't going to get you a day off." Morgana grinned cruelly, folding her arms defiantly. That sob story probably got him everywhere – all it would get from her would be a new layer of respect; albeit a thin one.
Falling to a crouch she dug through the cupboards, ready to return to work once more. She wasn't one who was particularly good at helping others achieve their dreams – she had enough trouble trying to achieve her own. Rest assured the two were in this together now, and it only seemed right to offer her shoulder.
Pantheon's lack of movement came to her notice, prompting her to lean back from the cupboard for a moment. "Well then? Get the ingredients already!"
After all, this place still needed a name.
"There's no point in wallowing in doubt."
Her student flipped the tray between his hands, that glint of enthusiasm making itself known once more within his crimson irises. The tray found itself slipped within the oven once more by Pantheon's steady hand, as he returned to work once again. "With pride!"
Morgana spied over her assortments as he made his way to the pair of doors, the classic challenge lying in wait. After a moment of consideration he nudged the right one open for a change, promptly rubbing his sore back and nodding approvingly. He stepped out for his destination, eager to return to the craft he dreamed to master someday.
You've got to start somewhere.
Baby steps.
X
(A/N): There you have it! My attempt at writing a kid friendly fic, that – as usual – kind of gets confused… And overly long, good lord!
I'm not sure about how this turned out, but I must admit that writing out the little sketch of their antics was pretty darn amusing to say the least xD
Hopefully you enjoyed! Current plan is for the next fic to – at last – be the fourth story in my ongoing TES series! Planning to get the first chapter of that done, before settling a personal story for a series close to my heart that is nearing its end…