Title: the science of cooking

Prompt: Fuuka

A/N: For Nat, who wanted Fuuka. I think she and Shinjiro could have had some fun cooking adventures, if they had the chance.

Summary: Cooking was an exact science, and Fuuka was great at science. Just, for some reason, all of her food ended up either raw or overcooked. Fortunately, Shinjiro might know how to help.

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Fuuka knew how to be precise. She was a mechanic to her core and fine-tuning delicate instruments required delicate hands. When she allowed herself a little well-earned praise, she was methodical with a good eye for detail.

Logically, she shouldn't be as bad at cooking as she was. All she had to do was follow a set of instructions, just like she had the first time she'd learned to put together a radio. Measuring ingredients was an exact science, and she loved chemistry.

And yet.

And yet.

Fuuka bit her lip as she stared at the two sets of pork cutlets on a white, plastic platter. The first set looked like perfection, the panko coating a perfect shade of brown. Clutching her knife tightly, she cut through the first cutlet, exposing white meat with a pink center. It was still raw, unfortunately, and utterly inedible.

Another failure.

"Not again," she sighed, turning over to the second set. It looked as black as charcoal, and probably tasted as bad too, but she had to check. Biting her lip, she cut through the thick cutlet and revealed white meat.

"Yes!" She quickly picked it up, wincing a little as the heat burned her fingers. Blowing on it a few times, she took a bite.

Immediately, Fuuka resisted the urge to gag. A bitterness spread across her tongue and down her throat, like she was eating ash or gravel. She'd expected it, but it was so much worse than she'd prepared for. What little she could taste of the meat was drowned out, leaving behind only a strange sense of chewiness.

It was overcooked.

Sidestepping, she filled a glass with water and drank it with a single, long gulp. Even then, the bitter sensation lingered like a bad cough. "Why does this happen every time?" she groaned, resting her forehead on the cool kitchen counter.

The only good thing was that no one else was around to see her failure. It was an unseasonably warn day for September, and since they hadn't gotten much homework yet, everyone making the best of it and escaped the dorms.

Fuuka, on the other hand, had taken full advantage of the empty kitchen to improve her skills. She eyed her food critically. Well, she had hoped to improve her skills, but she was still stuck at step one.

"What happened?" she murmured, checking the open recipe book on the center island. The steps were simple enough—cut the meat, coat it, fry it. It wasn't rocket science. It wasn't even engineering. Just like math, there were rules and all she had to do was obey them to get a delicious meal. "In theory, at least," she murmured, thinking aloud now. "The oil was warm. The meat's thin. I coated it all. Did I miss a step?"

Claws clicked on the tiled floor and she looked down to find Koromaru had padded into the room, attracted by the scent of food. He looked at her expectantly and whined.

"Sorry, I don't think you should eat this." She smiled apologetically, resisting the urge to scratch his ears with her flour-covered hands. "I don't think anyone should, actually."

"Eat what?" Shinjiro asked, shoulders slouched and hands in his pockets as he stepped in the room. His usual beanie was pulled low, his bangs obscuring his eyes and making him hard to read.

Not that Fuuka could tell what he felt otherwise. He was by far the gruffiest member of their group and she had a sinking feeling she'd never fully understand him. If even Mitsuru and Akihiko didn't seem like they understood him, what chance did she have? Rubbing her neck, she flushed as she gestured at the ruined food. "I was trying to make cook but…it's not going well. I either overcook or undercook."

"I see." His dark eyes scanned the room, before landing on her. Shinjiro's jaw tightened imperceptibly and he stepped forward and raised his arm.

Fuuka tried not to flinch. They were teammates now. They lived together. He definitely wasn't going to hurt her and all of those rumours she'd heard were just that and there was absolutely nothing to be scared about, not at all—

He reached past her before she could so much as squeak and turned off the stove with a soft click. "It should be off if you aren't using it."

"Oh." Fuuka tried to calm herself as she nodded. "Right." She glanced behind her. The oil was still on the stove and she'd heard enough about accidental fires to wince. "Sorry."

"It's fine." He shrugged, indifferent. "What are you making?"

Those were the most words she'd heard from him outside of the Dark Hour. Trying not to stare, Fuuka gripped the edge of her apron. "Tonkatsu," she admitted.

Shinjiro frowned. For a second, it looked like he wanted to say something, but after a few minutes he shook his head. "Good luck," he replied as he left the kitchen.

"Thanks." With a sigh, Fuuka turned back to the ruined attempts. It was far too late for the overcooked ones; she'd have to toss them. But the other ones…if she could just cook the meat without burning the coating…

"You should bake it."

Fuuka jumped at the voice right behind her. "What—" A quick glance over her shoulder revealed Shinjiro had returned and for a man who liked walking Koromaru, he was as stealthy as a cat.

"If you keep it at a low temperature, even broil it, you can cook it without overcooking the crust." Shinjiro scuffed his slippers on the tiles, looking as awkward and out of place as she felt. He'd always kept to himself; pulling words out of him felt like blindly connecting circuits on a board.

"I didn't know you could cook," Fuuka blurted out before she could stop herself.

"Kinda." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Enough to feed myself at least. I can help, if you want."

Tonkatsu seemed far more complicated than basic cooking, but it wasn't like Fuuka had room to talk. What did she really know? Humouring him, she smiled. "Really? That would be great."

It was like a switch flipped. He straightened up slightly, his tall, lanky frame already reaching the upper cupboards for the spare apron. How he knew that was there, she had no clue. Fuuka was certain he'd never been in the kitchen before.

Tying the apron, he gestured with his chin at the stove. "Set the oven to broil."

"The oven?" Fuuka stared at him blankly, not understanding. "We're supposed to fry the meat, right?"

"That's the next batch." He pointed at her failures. "The good ones just need the meat cooked, right?" There was none of his wry, sarcastic humour for once, instead he spoke with a strange confidence that she couldn't connect to him. "They'll still taste fine after."

"Oh, I see." Fuuka quickly opened the oven, double checking nothing was in there and the racks were in the right place. After turning the oven on, she pulled out a tray. "I didn't know we could do that."

"It's a simple trick." And again, just like before, he casually shrugged off her words. She wondered if he really didn't care, or if it was all just an act. "Your meat isn't thin enough."

"It isn't?" As she spread the aluminum foil over the tray, she glanced at him.

He held up one of her slices of breast meat. It was as thick as a finger. "No, it has to be thinner than this." With practiced ease, he pulled open a drawer and pulled out a hammer-like tool. "I'll hit it a few times."

Fuuka leaned closer, watching as he spread saran wrap and placed the meat on it. Just like with his axe, he swung the hammer, though his opponent was just a piece of meat and not a monster. She glanced at his face and it was a mistake. Nothing about him looked like the Shinjiro she knew—his eyes were soft, his lips curved into a half-smile, his expression relaxed for once. It was like the years just washed right off him and he didn't look like the lost, angry man she'd mistaken him as. No, now he looked like he was her age, like he really could have been in class with Akihiko and Mitsuru.

"Got it?" he asked, turning to her.

"Y-yeah," she stuttered, forcing herself to look at the cutting board. The meat looked just like it did in the recipe, and she had no idea how that happened.

"Good." His expression started to close off again as he set the hammer down. The oven beeped and he stepped around her to the sink. "You don't have to keep the meat in for too long. And just…lower the temperature or something when you fry."

He's going to leave, she realized. His job done, he was going to leave and that would be the end of that. She'd be back to cooking alone.

Fuuka lowered her eyes, her fingers pulling on a thread on her apron. She had never considered herself particularly bold, but if there was one thing she'd realized since she'd come to the dorms, it was that she liked being around other people. She liked having friends, having connections, and that there was a different kind of loneliness that came from isolating after meeting others.

Shinjiro, she was certain, must have felt it too.

"Could you help me fry?" she asked, mustering up her courage.

Natsuki had reached out to her. The others in the dorms had reached out to her. It was time she tried reaching back instead, tried connecting on her own.

Shinjiro blinked, surprised. "What?"

She clenched her jaw and repeated, "Could you help me?"

They could be friends. She was certain of it.