stilljustandrew | [ainmhianverse] same as it ever was

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[ainmhianverse] same as it ever was

Andrew isn't sure how long he's been here. There's no clock in the room, no watch on his wrist, no phone in his pocket. Nobody's come into the room, and that feels like a test, or like a trap. Someone's waiting to see what he'll do.

It takes what feels like hours, between deciding to try opening the door and putting out his hand to grip the knob, and almost as long again to try to turn it. It turns, smoothly, effortlessly, almost silently, and with a tiny whimper of fear he pulls his hand away as though burned and stumbles back several steps.

On the second attempt, he's able to ease the door open the tiniest amount, and then freezes to see what will happen. When nothing does, he opens the door a touch further, and further until there's an opening wide enough to step through.

He steps through.

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"Yes," Max says without hesitation.

He doesn't add that, if it's something Andrew thinks he wants, then they may have a discussion about it at the time. They will just cross that bridge when they come to it.

"I promise."

He breathes out shakily, in relief and acquiescence.

"Thank you," he whispers, and once again has to swallow the word master.

Andrew has done well. Really well. So Max thinks it might be a good time for a break. Besides, the poor guy was almost falling asleep already a few times.

"What do you say to taking a little nap with me? You look like you could use it."

Andrew's face turns up to Max's, like a flower to the sun, and he smiles.

"I'd like that. Thank you, Max."

--------------------

Gradually, they develop a routine. Andrew makes the bed every morning and washes the dishes on alternate days, happy to be useful. Max gives him a mandatory free period every day, to go do something he likes, and encourages him to meet people. He exercises, and visits the library and the bookshop, and spends more time outdoors than he has in years.

He decides, with a dizzying blend of trepidation and excitement, that sometime soon he's going to ask Max if he could try to help cook.

They've settled into a routine. Andrew has adapted well to it, much to Max's relief. In fact, they both have. He finds those moments where he asks Andrew what he did with the day to be some of the highlights in his own day. Usually, these conversations happen while he's making the evening meal. But, despite working over the stove, Max always pay very close attention to everything his Pet tells him.

Today, he can tell, there's something on the man's mind that he hasn't yet said. There's a kind of nervous energy about Andrew that he's become good at picking up on.

"I'm really proud of how sociable you've been lately," says Max as he sets a pot of potatoes on the burner to boil, "I think you're doing really well. And, you know if there's ever anything you want or need, all you have to do is ask."

Andrew glows at Max's words of approval, his head coming up in a kind of reflected pride. It helps him muster up the nerve to take the hint in the rest of what his master says.

"I, I was wondering," he says, "I mean -- this isn't something I need, but -- do you think maybe sometime I could ... help with the cooking? I --" More words spill out of him with that same nervous energy, as though he's frightened by his own temerity in asking. "I'm not even sure I remember how, it's been a really long time, but I used to be -- people used to say I was good at it, and I just, I thought maybe it could be ... something I could do for you?"

The way Max is smiling by the time Andrew fumbles out the last of his request, you'd think the man had just told Max he found the Holy Grail.

"I would love that. Yes. Absolutely. I want to see what you can do."

Andrew's smile brightens even further, to an eager beam. "Yes? I, I can -- when?"

He's about to ask tomorrow? and swallows it, afraid to ask too assertively, even if Max does seem pleased.

"Yes. Of course." His tone is soothing, in an effort to reassure Andrew that this request (and others in the future) is perfectly acceptable.

"What about tonight? We have time to go out for anything we might need. Do you have a dish in mind?"

"I --" His eyes widen and the smile falters, in startlement and something like alarm. "W-would tomorrow be all right? I, it's been a, a really long time, I'd ... I think I could do better if I had some time to think about it?"

"Yes," Max is quick to reply, not wanting to let Andrew's obvious alarm grow worse.

"Tomorrow is perfect. You can take it at your own pace, but I have faith in you."

The alarm fades to a much more manageable anxiety, tempered with real eagerness.

"Do you ... have any cookbooks? I, I used to just look for recipes online, but ... I can't do that here."

"Oh, how I know that pain. I miss the internet."

As for the request well... that's tricky. "Truth be told, most of my recipes are memorized by now. But, I do have something you can use. I've been putting together a little book of my own. It's handwritten right now. Would that be okay?"

As he talks, Max pulls out a large leather-bound tome from its place on the kitchen counter. Inside are dozens and dozens of recipes, all hand-written in beautifully meticulous cursive. It's like cracking open an old manuscript, complete with illustrations--only it's all to do with food. He offers the tome out for Andrew to leaf through.

"If that doesn't work for you, we can go check in the library."

Andrew's eyes widen and shine with something like awe, and he reaches out for it -- slowly, unbelievingly, as though he's being offered the Holy Grail, or someone's newborn infant, or the original signed script to Star Wars.

He tries to say something -- a thank-you perhaps, or a protest that he couldn't possibly use anything this beautiful -- but he can't make a sound.

In hindsight, Max really should have expected this, knowing how Andrew worships him. The awe is admittedly flattering, but if Andrew's mouth keeps hanging open like that something's liable to fly in there.

"It's okay. You can look through it. What's the use of a cook book if no one ever cooks with it, hm?"

"Thank you," he says, and it seems so inadequate that he has to say it again. "Thank you so much, I -- I promise I'll be careful with it --"

He hugs the book to his chest, blinking back the blur in his eyes, smiling so wide his cheeks ache. He's already planning to start studying it during his free time later.

"There's no doubt in my mind that you will be," Max answers. "But remember, it's meant to be used. A few grease stains here or there on the pages just adds history to it. So, don't be too afraid. Okay?"

"Okay," he says, absolutely certain he is not ever going to risk getting the faintest particle of grease on this book.

Not that he thinks Max is wrong, or that there's anything wrong in general about a cookbook getting food stains on it. It's just that this particular cookbook is so beautiful, and something his master made with his own hands, and ... it wouldn't feel right.

(If pressed, he might admit: it's that he, Andrew, doesn't have the right.)

That evening, in the quiet interval between dinner and sleep, he settles in one of the room's soft armchairs and begins to read. After some minutes he pauses, flips back to an earlier page, hesitates. Looks up to find Max.

"Could I ... is there anything I could use to, to take notes?"

"Okay." In the back of his mind, Max still knows Andrew is going to treat the book like a holy item, but decides not to press it. He's happy he got the man to agree to hold it, frankly.

Now, with the two of them settled down for the evening, Max is laying sideways on the sofa picking up where he left off in a book of his own, enjoying the peaceful co-existence between them. "Hm?" he says, lifting his chin so he can peer over his book. "Oh. Yes. There's some legal pads and pens in the desk drawer. Want me to get you one?"

"Yes, please," he says eagerly. "Or -- or I could get it?"

He hesitates, on the brink of putting the book aside and leaping to his feet, waiting only for Max's word.

"Nah," Max says nonchalantly, "I'm closer." He lays his book upside down on the arm of the couch to save his place and crosses over to the desk, a little quicker than he might naturally just to keep Andrew from trying to head him off.

As he hands over the pad and pencil, he adds, "Help yourself to more if you need it. And you can always ask me for clarification if something in there doesn't make sense. I'm not a professional author by any means."

Andrew reaches out to take the pad and pencil with both hands, his eyes bright with eager gratitude. "Thank you, Max," he says, and it's barely even an effort to swallow the master or my lord that wants to come out instead. "I will."

(He does echo it in his head, in a kind of self-soothing mantra: thank you, master.)

For a few minutes there's no sound but quiet, industrious scribbling, as Andrew starts to make a list: something he used to do on a near-daily basis, and hasn't done for years.

"You're welcome." He smiles extra bright noting how Andrew barely ever slips into that old habit of trying to call him Master now.

Rather than return to his reading, Max perches on the arm of Andrew's chair and peers curiously as what he's so studiously writing.

It proves to be a growing list of ingredients copied out of the recipe for chicken and rice, some items with check marks and some without.

Andrew glances up at him, and hesitates in his writing.

"Oh. Sorry, I don't mean to hover," Max says, when Andrew stops to look up. "I was just curious to see which one you were looking at."

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