Short-Order

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Dorian can follow instructions like nobody's business, which makes him a passable cook.

John can barely stand to obey his GPS and has, up until this point, survived on a diet of take-out foods, ready meals, and more often than he'll admit, just skipping dinner. The upside to Dorian taking up residence in his space is the android's deep-laced desire to nurture his partner with food and other domestic comforts. John can leave his wet towels on the bathroom floor and his clothes wherever he steps out of them and magically, everything will be washed and put away.

As for the food, Dorian does his very best while John hones his skills as a critic.

"Bland."

"What is bland?"

"Literally everything," John pokes at a sensible portion of mashed potatoes, lazily sculpting.

"You haven't tried the green beans yet," Dorian offers, "I found an article with a recipe on how to season them perfectly."

John stabs one and examines it. Then shakes it off his fork. "I'm not into this, tonight." He claws at his neck, looking away.

"Just try it," Dorian leans forward, accidentally raises his voice, "Just eat, John." He emphasizes with a thump to the table. The plate bounces a little.

An awkward, buzzing, seething silence.

John picks at the food, his tongue thrust into the side of his cheek. Darts his eyes up, "So, um, is your charge low?" he asks quietly, cautiously.

Later, he sleeps on the couch.