A/N: Sorry, I lied about the Baketrix. I've never actually even seen the trilogy, so I probably wouldn't be able to write a proper spoof anyways. However, this chapter does have a spoon in slo-mo, so that will have to do.

I think we're probably about halfway through by now. So Hooray! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, it got the most reviews so far, and I'm very grateful for all of the nice comments!

This is one of my least favorite chapters, though I'm not sure why. I guess it was kind of rushed. Also, it's about 80 percent dialog, so get ready. Hope you like it!

I promise the next chapter will be better.

"Stop! Nobody move!"

Joly's shout filled the kitchen with the force of an explosion, taking its other inhabitants by complete surprise.

Five pairs of eyes remained locked on the spoon as it arced through the air, the world seeming to slow for a moment before it landed at Laigle's feet with a deafening clatter. The sound seemed to somehow break a spell that hung over the five men, and each of them began to speak at once.

"Have you gone mad?" Feuilly demanded, staring at his friend as if he were a raving lunatic. "What on earth did you do that for?"

"My only pair of shoes," Laigle was lamenting to whomever was listening. "Cost me three weeks of pocket money. Three weeks!"

"You don't understand!" Joly raved, doing little to alleviate Feuilly's fears. "You could have died!"

"They look to me as if they cost you about four sous," Courfeyrac commented unsympathetically to Laigle.

"Well, of course, now they do!" Laigle retorted, gazing mournfully down at where the footwear in question had been sprayed with batter.

"I hardly," Feuilly began, completely ignoring the conversation going on a few feet away. "Think that sampling éclair filling is a matter of life and death."

"But it is!" Joly insisted. "You haven't cooked the eggs!"

"The recipe didn't say we needed to."

"You should never eat uncooked eggs! They've got all sorts of dreadful diseases. Do you want to die?"

"Here we go, again," Bahorel muttered under his breath, busily cutting excess pastry from around the edges of three pie plates. Louison, the scullery maid, had worked late the night before to make them puff pastry, and they had found it neatly tucked into the ice-chest.

"I refuse to be afraid of an egg," Feuilly declared, anchoring his hands on his hips in a display of willfulness.

"My grandmother used to eat raw eggs." That was Courfeyrac, apparently having tired of Laigle and determined, as always, to volunteer something to the conversation. "Thought they made her bones stronger."

"Did they?" Bahorel ventured, ignoring Joly's horrified expression.

"Not enough," this with a grin that would have made any girl flush from head to toe.

Offended at the lightheartedness with which his warnings had been received, Joly sulkily withdrew to a corner, seating himself on a stool that someone had left there. "Go ahead and scoff. Just don't come crying to me when you're dying from a bacterium-induced infection."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Bahorel said with a wink. "I'll keep my bacterium-induced infections all to myself." Courfeyrac simply laughed.

"He's just trying to look out for you, you know." Laigle was crouched on the floor, trying fruitlessly to remove the large stains from his shoes by scrubbing at them with a dishtowel.

"Yes, we know," Courfeyrac acknowledged, his face suddenly solemn despite the twinkling of his eyes. "And we're really very grateful," He directed towards the sullen figure in the corner. "I can't even begin to imagine what I've saved on doctor's bills since I met you, Jolly."

"Oh, stop," Feuilly admonished absently, almost completely absorbed in the recipe's curves and loops. After a moment, he glanced up at Bahorel, his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "What's a pastry bag and what do they mean by 'tube'?"

"Let me see it." Bahorel moved to stand beside the fan-maker, his eyes darting back and forth across the carefully printed lines. "Well, first you're going to have to spread this stuff on these plates over here, like this." He demonstrated, using the back of a spoon to thinly spread the mixture they had made over one of the pastry-covered pie plates. "You finish with this and I'll get the pastry bag."

Eagerly, Feuilly took the spoon and set to work, closely watched by Courfeyrac, who had never so much as poached an egg.

"By the way," Joly spoke up, unexpectedly breaking his silence. "Where's Combeferre? I thought he was with Courfey."

"He was," Courfeyrac replied. "But he told me he had some errands to do before he was ready to come back here. He was all very mysterious and such, but I figure he went to go see how Jehan's getting along."

"Ah, Provaire's special assignment." Laigle grinned. "Can't say I envy him any."

"Do you suppose he suspects?" Feuilly asked.

"Who? Oh, him? Don't see how he would. I doubt it's something he would ever consider, himself. I'd be surprised if he's ever baked anything in his life."

"Who among us has?" Courfeyrac interjected dryly. Bahorel was the only one to raise his hand, prompting Laigle to throw the dishtowel at him. The large man sidestepped neatly and came to a halt besides Feuilly.

"Now see here, this is a pastry bag. We're going to fit the tube in, like so, and—Here, give me that mixing bowl, would you? Thanks. All right, so we're going to scoop all of this excess filling into the bag--"

"Step right up to see the world's most militant baker," Courfeyrac joked. "Uses real gunpowder in place of flour! Get your tickets now."

"Proceeds go towards getting me a new pair of shoes," Laigle chimed in.

"Sure, why not? Baked goods available after the show."

"Why don't you two clowns do something useful and start making the cream?" Bahorel said gruffly.

"I'd love to," Courfeyrac replied in mock earnest. "We haven't had any good explosions all day."

A/N: To Be Continued in the EXCITING Next Issue: The Return of Grantaire (and if that doesn't scare you, I don't know what will)