Ring Ring.

At the start of the school year, Jim Lake's greatest concerns were taking care of his mother, passing math, and avoiding conflict, not necessarily in that order. Jim had never been bullied, outcast and ignored, yes, but never bullied. Still, according to valuable sources (Toby) that he had great potential to be a prime target, and Jim knew from experience that getting stuck inside a locker wasn't any fun. (Long story) Needless to say, it was a chance he wasn't willing to take.

Ring Ring.

After killing Bulgar, slaying Gunmar, and successfully halting several Gnome revolts, bullies were no longer a threat. They were more of a pest, an annoying fly not worth his time.

Ring Ring.

That he was just going to ignore until it went away-

Ring Ring.

Damn it.

Jim swiped to the left and pressed his phone to his ear. "This had better be good Steve."

"I…" There was shuffling on the other end, and a loud beeping in the distance. "I need your help." Steve forced himself to say.

Jim groaned, but unfortunately for him, a trollhunter always answered the call. "What is it?"

"Uh…" A long pause. "…cooking?"

Jim, who had been in the middle of tugging on his shoe, froze. Nope, not happening.

"It's an apology of sorts. Not for you, obviously!" Steve swore and backtracked "Sorry. Look, I know we don't get along but-" the beeping got louder, accompanied by a loud crash.

Jim frowned. "Was that the smoke alarm?"

"Yes, but-" Steve didn't get to finish his sentence, as Jim had already hung up. He tugged on his other shoe and hopped onto his vespa. No one's kitchen burned down on his watch. In other words, his mom was trying her hand at cooking tonight and he needed an excuse to leave.

Several minutes later, he pulled up outside of the one story house. It wasn't anything special, with it's detached garage and overgrown shrubbery, but Jim still stared in mental preparation.

Here goes nothing.

Steve was pulling Jim inside before he'd even lifted his hand to knock. Relief was written on his face, along with flour and peanut butter. Jim didn't ask. Seeing as Steve was still wearing his sneakers, he didn't bother taking off his shoes and followed him to the kitchen.

It looked like Kharybdis (Ha! Take that Mr. Warner! I do pay attention to your Odyssey monologues in English.) had sucked up everything edible and vomited it back up. As a self-proclaimed cooking conosuoier, Jim was horrified. He sent Steve an accusatory glare.

"So, can you help or not buttsnack?" Steve grimaced, but forced it out "Please?"

Jim picked up a cloth and ran it under the sink. "Adding please to the end doesn't make it any less rude" He chucked the cloth at Steve's head. Steve scowled at it, and tossed it off. It flopped to the ground with a whimper. "That's called a cloth. You clean with it."

Steve's frown deepened. "I know what a cloth is."

"Then you'll have no problem using it." Jim couldn't help but grin in victory as Steve set to work on wiping the flour off the walls. It wasn't like Steve to not get the last word. Still smirking, Jim grabbed a sponge. They continued like that for far longer than Jim expected, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

People often describe hatred as fire, but that's not true. It's like boiling water, bubbling underneath the surface. It's anger-flushed skin, that slowly reddens until you can see the smoke coming out of a person's ears. With Steve, it wasn't smoke in his ears, but the steam coming off the dishes as he scratched at a particularly annoying spot, that broke his facade.

He grit his teeth. "Damn it Jim! This isn't cooking!"

Jim set down his clothe, unperturbed. There was the Steve he knew and hated. "Rule number 1: A clean working environment." Jim frowned, he sounded like Blinky. "I know you hate me, but I know what I'm doing."

"I don't hate you." Steve blurted out, one hand fumbling with the upturned collar of his shirt, the other hand hovering above the counter like he didn't know what to do with it. "I never did."

Jim frowned. "Then what was all that about? Your weird rivalry, taking Claire to the concert, spying on Toby? If you didn't hate me, then what was that for?"

Steve's eyes lingered on Jim's face. They were softer somehow, but maybe it was just his imagination. Suddenly, Steve's face turned red. "Doesn't matter!" He turned back around, scrubbing at the grease spot despite his previous protests.

Jim was beyond confused. Was it just him, or was Steve acting weird. Weirder than usual, although that adult diaper during the Spring King challenges had been…

Jim shuddered and dismissed the thought.

"Rule number 2: Ingredients." Jim mouthed, remembering the only good thing his deadbeat father had left him with. Did you really think Jim got his cooking expertise from his mom? Most of what Jim knew about cooking he had taught himself, but the basic principles had come from his father. Perhaps teaching a 5 year old how to use a stove and twirl steak knives wasn't the best idea, but James Lake Senior had done many questionable things. For example: leaving his wife and child in the middle of a Tuesday night. It wasn't like Jim missed him -Jim hardly remembered his father- but he knew his mom did. There was while where Jim hated his namesake for that, but it seemed silly now. Hating his father was a waste of energy, something Jim had come to terms with years ago.

"So what do you want to make?"

A shrug.

"Anything? Okay, I'll see what I can do." Jim peered around the kitchen "Where's the pantry?"

Steve jerked his thumb behind him to a row of cabinets above the countertop, muttering profanities under his breath.

Jim set to work. He'd decided on sphagetti. It was simple, and unless Steve couldn't have gluten, allergy. Flour…no parsley, but half a jar of oregano… table salt… canned tomato sauce (Jim hated using it, but he'd already checked the fridge and he was out of options)… vegetable oil. It wasn't what Jim was used to, but he could make do. Piling up the ingredients on the counter, Jim closed the cabinet door.

Jim tilted his head, eyes squinted. He reached out to touch it, then jerked his hand back before he could. Jim didn't need any splinters.

"Where'd this scratch come from?"

Steve's phone rang then, a weird recording of himself repeating 'buttsnack'. Jim didn't know why Steve was obsessed with the made up word, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. Steve exhaled in relief as he pressed the phone to his ear. His face went through so many changes in those few seconds that Jim couldn't keep track of them. All he knew was that by the time Steve spoke again, his smile was forced, as though he had to fake it for the person on the other line who couldn't even see him.

"That's- that's great Eli…It's not a big deal… No really!"" Jim could tell he didn't mean it. "See you soon Pepperbuddy." Steve hung up the phone, dejected. It didn't take long for the forced smile to turn into a grimace. An incredibly confused Jim was shoved outside with the words "Last time I take advice from your girlfriend."

By Deya's Grace, Steve Palchuck was weird.

First off, sorry for not updating last week. I had a lot going on, school, disapproving parents, my crush coming to me with his sexuality crisis… you know, the works. Anyhow, even though I hate this chapter and will likely be heavily editing it later, I hope this makes up for it. If you have any tips or things you don't understand, please comment. It would help me a lot.