Notes: I really struggled to find something for them to cook together that would be appropriate for the 11th century. I wanted them to do a Savoie cake originally that is pretty old but still really popular in France nowadays (it's similar to English/American sponge/angel cake apparently), but after some research it seems it was only created in the 14th century… So after looking around I only found Hidelgard of Bingen's recipies (but she's also a bit too recent for Michel and Giselle's period) and… 'fairy fingers.' It's called 'doigts de fées' in French and I'm not sure if it really exists in other countries? But yeah, that seemed to fit. Not that it matters much in the end but hey. It was a fun topic to research.
She had been staring at him with her mouth wide open for at least three whole minutes now.
And three minutes was a long time when spent in silence with just another person gawking at you. She was aware Michel must felt very uncomfortable by now; but honestly, how else was she supposed to reply to this?
"Giselle?" He finally tried again. "Did you… hear me?"
She blinked, although still in a trance, then finally closed her mouth. Frowning, she looked on her right and left.
"I…" She started, then stopped. "What… Can you repeat what you just said to me again?"
"I, uh… I just asked you if you… I mean, if you didn't mind… teaching me… how to cook."
Giselle stared at him once more. Then she stood up, approached him, and put her hand on his forehead.
"G-Giselle? What—"
"It doesn't seem like you have a fever," she said, very seriously. "What's going on? You can't possibly have gotten a heatstroke, it's winter!"
Michel groaned, pushing her hand away — and that's funny, because it's only then that she noticed there was a very discernible blush creeping on his cheeks, and the problem with having an abnormally pale skin is that blushes are very visible.
Still, was he actually blushing because of her? Oh, that was cute.
"I'm not sick! God, is what I asked really that odd?"
"Well, I mean…" Giselle took a step back, crossed her arms, and stared straight at him again. "Yes."
Truthfully, she actually would be more apt to believe him if he told her he was some sort of supernatural creature or that he'd received a missive telling her she could return to the capital than this.
Michel and cooking just seemed to be stuck in the realm of impossible in her mind — an anomaly that would for sure create some sort of distortion in the universe if brought together.
"I'm not sure how to take that answer."
"But I mean, why would you ask me that all of a sudden?"
"Well, it's just…"
Michel looked away, as if not sure how to put his thoughts into words, and appearing… embarrassed?
Oh no. Why is he acting so adorable all of a sudden? What's going on?
Giselle felt like she was missing a piece of the puzzle here. It had been almost six months now since she came back to the mansion and that they'd started getting along. Things had been going so well, sometimes she almost couldn't believe it; still waiting for the other shoe to drop at any moment.
But at other times… she felt so at ease in his presence, so content, that it was as if all of her problems and all the pain she'd experienced up until now stopped existing.
During those past months, she felt confident in saying she'd gathered a pretty good grasp of Michel as a person, had been able to slowly nibble away his facades and discover many different sides of him. Yet, it was still the first time she was seeing him like… that — and it certainly was the first time he'd ever dared to ask such a favor out of her.
"I… You've been… taking care of all the cooking and… of most of the chores since you've arrived," Michel finally continued.
He was still unable to look at her in the eyes, focusing on the ground instead, and it was very destabilizing to Giselle. He acted as embarrassed as if he was about to confess his love or something, which would be really ridiculous.
"And… uh… well, you know, I've been thinking that… it wasn't very fair to… let you do that on your own. We are two people living here now, after all… So… I want to learn a little and maybe… help you out… I suppose…"
The words took a lot of time to actually reach Giselle's brain, and so she continued to stare at him in disbelief for a while. And when they ultimately did — she gasped, chuckled, then burst out laughing.
"Don't laugh!" Michel exclaimed in an uncharacteristic fit of emotion, his cheeks now completely red. "I-I'm being serious here!"
"S-Sorry, sorry! It's just…" She tried to restrain her giggles as best as she could, without much success. "What? Th-That's it? Really? Oh god. Master, you're incredible!"
"That… doesn't feel much like a compliment."
She shook her head, wiping away her tears. "No, no, I'm genuinely touched. It makes me happy that you're concerned about the type of work I have to do and that you want to help! But… well, you know, I'm still your servant. So, it is my job. You don't have to feel bad about that."
He sighed. "Well, yes. But still, I'm not the one who employed you, and we are not really—"
Michel stopped there. His face was frozen in doubt, as if putting the rest into words would actively trigger… something. But Giselle could easily guess what he was about to say even without hearing it.
We are not really that much of a servant and master.
That was true. Even if Giselle was the one doing all the cooking and taking care of most of the chores — although Michel still helped with some of those like cleaning — and that she did call him 'Master,' that was pretty much were it stopped.
Most of time, they simply… acted like friends. And, to say the truth, that was how Giselle liked to think of Michel.
As her friend, more than her master.
She wasn't entirely sure if it was a good thing, but at least it certainly wasn't a bad one.
Still, she could understand Michel's hesitation to actually put their relationship into words — there was something that felt not entirely… appropriate about the entire thing.
That was why she didn't press him any further and simply continued on the topic at hand: "Well! If you really want to try learning cooking, then sure, we can do that. Cooking is really fun, you know? What do you want to try first? We'll have to wait until next month for the ingredients if you want something in particular though…"
Michel paused, frowning. "I… don't know, actually. I haven't really thought much about it. Something simple to start with?"
"Hmm… Simple, huh? Then how about something sweet? Oh, I know! What about fairy fingers?"
"Fairy…?"
"Geez, you've never heard of it? Those are cookies! Mom used to make these all the time. When my sister and I were kids, she would tell us they were originally offered to fairies who ate children. To trick them, a woman from the village made cookies that looked like fingers and gave them to the fairies telling them those were real children's fingers. She would leave them under the trees and…"
As she kept talking, her smile suddenly waned. Michel looked at her with a concerned gaze.
"Giselle?"
"Ah… Sorry. I was just thinking about my mom and sister back at home. You know…"
Giselle couldn't tell if Michel really 'knew,' but he nodded with an understanding look regardless.
Cooking was, to her, inherently linked to her family — her mother had been a very talented cook and it was a primordial thing to her to teach her children how to handle the kitchen. Though her sister didn't like cooking unlike Giselle, so in the end it had more been a privileged time only between her and mother, and to this day those were part of the memories she cherished the most.
Would she ever be able to cook like this with her mom again?
The thought brought on a pang of loneliness and sorrow, so she did her best to chase it away and instead smiled at Michel.
"Anyway! I think it's definitely a good start for a beginner. We should try it!"
Michel stared at her quietly for a moment, probably still worried about her melancholic fit from earlier, then finally opened back his mouth tentatively.
"Well… it sounds nice, but the point in me learning was so that I could make proper meals, not just cookies—"
"You have to start somewhere, right? We can make more complicated things later. Plus, don't think of it in such a practical way! You have to learn how to love cooking, not just cooking because you have to eat. Hmm, I think we already have flour and butter, but we'll still need almonds, egg white, orange blossoms…"
She started enumerating all the ingredients needed out loud, already getting excited at the prospect — it would in fact be the first time she'd bake sweets here, as she'd only made relatively simple meals since she'd arrived at the mansion. Michel tried to protest again, but all of his arguments were in vain; now that he had put the idea into her head, there was no way she'd let it go. Thus it was decided they would put a message for the Bollinger main house next time to command the missing ingredients… Giselle nodded to herself, satisfied of her planning.
"All right." She suddenly turned around towards Michel, a wide smile splitting her face. "Listen up, Master. I accept to teach you how to cook… but under one condition."
The man arched an eyebrow, a clear suspicious — and a bit worried — glint shining in his eyes.
"Yes…?"
"I might usually be your servant, but right now, in this kitchen, I will be the master. You'll have to follow every order I give you, without protesting. Got it?"
"Very well, Master, now you have to mix the flour, almonds and the salt. Then we'll add the butter in cubes, the eggs and orange blossom… Oh god, right, there's the sugar too! I still can't believe your family was able to get hold of sugar so easily. The Bollinger house is truly something else, huh…"
Giselle kept talking, sitting on the counter and swinging her legs cheerfully as Michel struggled with a large bowl he in front of him, agitating a wooden spatula inside it. He had tied his long, white hair in a messy bun — all on his own, as he'd specifically refused to let her touch his hair for some reason — and was wearing an improvised apron they'd made out of some unused sheet.
They'd only just started, but he was already very focused on his task; eyebrows knitted together, nose scrunched and eyes narrowed as he clumsily stirred the utensil in its recipient. Giselle watched him in the corner of her eyes, trying her best to not giggle.
She felt it would be mean to laugh at him when he was obviously trying his best and follow her instructions to the letter, but… she just couldn't help how cute she found him like this. It felt like a sudden whole new Michel in front of her, one she knew nothing about, and it just was so thrilling and heartwarming all at the same time — discovering all kinds of new things like this, especially when it concerned him, always put her in a peculiar, happy and exhilarated type of mood she couldn't get tired of.
It reminded her of all the fond memories she had spent cooking with her mother, but still with its own unique feel and experience to it.
Oddly enough, cooking like this with him didn't make her miss her family as much as she'd originally expected. The first time she'd found herself in the mansion's kitchen all by herself when she first arrived made her feel really depressed, but now it wasn't the case anymore; maybe Michel's presence was simply enough to soothe a little the loneliness in her heart left by her mother and sister.
"I'm… I'm not sure it works, Gi— I mean, Master."
"It works, it works! Trust me, you just have to be patient. Keep on mixing it. You won't be able to achieve anything in cooking if you're impatient, Master."
He sighted, and put down the bowl momentarily to wipe his forehead. Then he suddenly threw a curious look at her that Giselle couldn't quite describe.
"What is it?" She asked.
"It's just… You said before that in the kitchen you'll be the master from now on, but you still haven't called me Michel once. You only keep using 'Master.'"
"Huh? O-Oh… Yes, that's true…"
Truth be told, what she'd told him about 'being the master in the kitchen' had been mostly in jest; she hadn't expected him to take it so seriously.
And… there was just a part of her who couldn't bring herself to call him by his given name.
There was just something too… intimate, about it. It felt like if she were to call him 'Michel' now… it would be like admitting that their relationship went besides the normal servant-master dynamic they were supposed to have.
It would be like saying they were, genuinely, officially, friends.
Which wouldn't be wrong or bad, but… that felt like a step she just couldn't take right now.
So she decided to brush him off, smiling and shaking her head casually. "Well, it's just hard to break the habit, you know. Plus, I was mostly joking! It's kind of nice to be called a 'master' and all, but you can just keep on calling me Giselle if you want."
She laughed, trying to quickly move on from the topic — but Michel didn't seem to share her amusement. At the contrary, a strange frown crossed his face as he let out a soft 'Oh,' and it made Giselle pause.
Wait, was he… was he actually disappointed? Did he want her to call him Michel?
Was she overthinking stuff?
She shook her head, pushing away the thoughts. "A-Anyway, let's keep on! We can't spend the night on this."
"R-Right…"
"You know, you actually need to hold the spatula better if you want to mix in a more effective way. Look, I'll show you—" All while talking, she jumped off the counter and grabbed his wrist from behind. "If you bent your hand like that it'll be better to move quickly."
She instinctively let her fingers ran across Michel's hands, her fingertips palpating his skin. It was kind of amazing how slender his hand and fingers were, like spider legs; she was almost sure she could feel the bones behind it. Even though she'd made sure to make him healthy, well-balanced meals for the past few months, he was still as meager as an emaciated sick man on his death bed. Maybe she should try to ask ingredients with more butterfat…
"See?" She added, raising her head towards him. "That way is much more—"
But the moment she saw his face, she stopped. Michel was looking at her with wide eyes, lips tight, and a very distinct, very red blush spread across his cheeks. It was even more visible than when he'd asked her for this cooking lesson a month ago.
She wasn't sure what had caused this — well, sure, she was holding his hand and suddenly their faces were really close, but it was just a cooking lesson, nothing more! — however he looked so embarrassed that suddenly Giselle started to feel the same, pink flowing to her own cheeks.
Having the urge to hastily step aside from the awkward moment, she let go of his hand and almost jumped away from him — which also meant that in her hurry she'd completely forgot all about the flour sack she'd left on her side, and before she could comprehend what was happening her hand bumped into it; she lost balance, squeaked, and vaguely heard a worried 'Giselle!' before her vision turned upside down and she hit the floor.
The next thing she was able to distinguish was white. Pure white dust flying around the kitchen, falling all around her like thin snow. She would probably think of it as kind of pretty, if it weren't for how much her bottom and head started hurting.
"Giselle! Giselle, are you all right?"
A pair of red eyes came over her field of view, as Michel sat down next to her and stared at her worriedly. Giselle raised a hand in an attempt to placate him.
"I'm okay," she said. "I'm hurting a bit but it's not a big deal—"
"You got hurt? Where?" He asked in a panicked voice.
"I'm fine, I said! Geez, no need to look like I'm dying—" She straightened up, making some more bits of flour fly around, and she almost sneezed.
Well. Somehow, it wasn't surprising that their first cooking attempt together ended up like this.
"…I-If you say so, then that's fine, but…"
Giselle arched an eyebrow and looked at Michel. He still looked a bit concerned about her, but more than that, there was… a bit of an odd expression on his face. Like he was trying very hard not to look at her, and—
"Wh-What is it?"
"No, nothing, it's just…"
"What? You're worrying me here!"
Michel seemed to hesitate a little. And then, to her utmost surprised, he actually… started to chuckle.
"Your hair—" he said in between two laughs. "—just look… very white, now."
Giselle blinked, and then run a hand in her short hair — effectively, what she got out of it was a bunch of flour stuck on her hand; so much of it, in fact, that her entire palm was now completely white, as if she'd dived it into a paint bucket. She sighed in an exasperated, fond way.
"Oh well." She looked up at him, then smirked. "Do I look good with white hair?"
"…Not at all, actually. You're much better with dark one."
"Geez, why do you always have to be so mean?! You know you have flour on your face, too!"
But even with her complaints she was smiling despite herself, and by instinct, she reached for his cheek and the tip of his nose, wiping the flour dwelling there with her thumb affectionately.
This time, Michel didn't seem embarrassed at all; he just laughed some more. A new wave of warmth washed over Giselle — and in that instant, she found herself wishing she could make him laugh like that as often as possible.
They likely wouldn't have enough flour anymore to make any more cooking — but it was okay.
Michel's laugh had been more than worth it on its own, and they had all the time in the world to try again, after all.
