May I Take Your Order?
Written for Shipping Week on Morsmordre
Prompt: Piccalilli
Pairing: Aberforth/Dragon
Aberforth was in the kitchen making dinner when Dragon crept up behind him, giggling and wrapping her arms around him. Smiling, she pressed her lips against his cheek.
"Two questions," she said, still holding onto him with her chin against his shoulder. "What're you making and will I need to call the fire department afterwards?"
"If you must know, I'm making that garlic goat cheese pizza you're so fond of," Aberforth replied, not bothering to look up from the onion he was slicing. It wasn't until Dragon released him and started swiping jalapenos from the jar on the counter that he finally looked at her. "You're going to give yourself nightmarish flatulence if you keep eating those."
Dragon laughed. "You must like it because you keep feeding me all this stuff." His lip curled in a sneer, which only served to amuse her even more.
Their conversation was interrupted by Ramon driving by and sticking his head through the window.
"Hi, I would like a number two combo with extra bacon, leave the onions. I would like extra potatoes and a root beer. And one side of jalapeno poppers, hold the sausage. I also want an extra small meal for kids." Ramon finally paused for breath, remembering a question he wanted to ask. "Is the food extra small or is it made for extra small children? And I'd like the biggest soda you have. Oh, and a Happy Meal."
"Happy Meal?" Dragon said, tilting her head. "What does he think this is? MagiDonald's?"
Frowning deeply, Aberforth pushed past her and delivered a steaming bowl of rancid green slop. Most of it splashed onto the counter when he practically frisbeed it out the window. Dragon could have sworn she saw steam rising from the counter, as though the drops had burned a hole in the wood.
Leaning forward slightly, Ramon examined the toxic mess. "Good sir, this is not what I asked for."
"Right. Forgot the sandwiches." And with that Aberforth chucked a few drippy slices of bread out the window. The dampish bread hit the windshield with a sickening splat, then slowly slithered onto the hood of the car.
Five seconds later, Chavo yeeted himself onto the windshield and became what could only be described as a human windshield wiper. "Mind if I wash your car?" he asked, looking all too happy to devour Aberforth's nuclear waste. But before he could get an answer, Ramon sped off into the sunset, leaving behind a trail of dirty magazines, their pages fluttering in the wind.
"Sheesh, I don't know what his problem was," said Chavo, making his way through the window and sitting down at the table.
"Maybe it's the sauce he put on the sandwiches," said Dragon, eyeing the spoon Aberforth was holding. A thick yellowish substance coated the handle of the spoon, dripping its grotesquery on the floor. Already the ants were lapping it off the ground, along with a couple stray ladybugs from the Maisie's last visit. "What is that stuff anyway?"
"It's piccalilli," the surly goat breeder replied. "Nothing but a type of relish is all." He plopped another sandwich down on a plate, giving it to Chavo who happily ate his meal.
Honestly, the piccalilli looked like dog vomit and the soup looked like green diarrhea. But Chavo didn't care. He dipped his sandwich in the soup and said, "There isn't a wrong way to make food. There's only food that goes into a recipe and food that doesn't go in a recipe."
Aberforth couldn't help smiling. "Ah yes, my favorite customer. At least I know one person who isn't going to complain about the food here."