#but yeah unravel!imotekh could cook and cook well. probably most necrontyr soldiers knew how to manage in that regard

[magistralucis]

The chef has entered the kitchen [Drabble]

(For @eleooooooo. AU of an AU (😂) inspired by the Unravel!Imotekh cameo in From Darkness Unto Thy Light, which somehow pretzeled back into this scene. Imotekh makes Orikan a mushroom risotto/porridge/succulent vegetarian meal. Since AO3 is down the brainworm has been entertained, I hope it turned out cute aaaa)

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The tent flap rustled open. Imotekh looked up, the spoon scarce halfway to his mouth. At the entrance of the tent stood a veiled figure, his dark hair loose and mussed from a recent sleep.

Orikan stared at him. "What are you eating?"

"Orikan." Imotekh put down the spoon, and was just about to rise in greeting when the chronomancer took the liberty to plonk down right next to him, peering into the bowl. Through the cloth the tips of his ears were twitching in a way Imotekh had not seen before. "I didn't mean to wake you."

The cryptek contemplated this for a moment. Disregarded it, to return to the more pressing question. "What are you eating?"

Imotekh laughed. "Tried something different today. You can only have so many nights of gruel in a row, no matter how low down on the food chain you are." He stirred the grains for a moment, then glanced back up. "Would you like to try?"

Orikan nodded. Imotekh offered him a spoonful. There was a pause, then the cryptek hesitantly pushed his veil to the side, revealing just enough of his mouth that he could eat.

He didn't take the spoon from Imotekh, just leaned down towards it. Licked the broth off the tip, warily. The soldier watched, somewhat taken aback, as Orikan lapped slowly around the edge of the spoon - before finally closing his lips around it. After a few seconds he was up again, savouring the taste. Nothing about his demeanour suggested an opinion either way.

"... Well?"

Orikan remained silent. Imotekh worried that he'd blown it somehow, though he noted this was unlike any other reaction he'd seen from Orikan before. If he disliked it he'd probably have walked away without a word, like he'd done for so many meals of dry rusks or ration-cake stews. There was never any joy in it when he was obligated to finish something, either, he seemed to find the very concept of consumption mortifying. Still, he thought, this thing - it's no apple, certainly nothing you'd find at a banquet - but if he'll actually eat it...

"Orikan?"

And then he saw it. The tiniest of fidgets, accompanied by the brief clutch of the other's slender hand upon Imotekh's lap. He had no idea how he'd done it, but the cryptek was flustered - and pleasantly so, judging from the increasingly insistent stare Imotekh could feel a veil and an eternity away.

The soldier's face brightened. "Would you like more?" He exclaimed.

Orikan nodded. Hurriedly Imotekh scooped up another spoonful. And this time the chronomancer actually took matters into his own hands, accepting the spoon with one hand and pushing back the cloth with the other. There was none of the wariness from before: just the mouthful followed by another, the third faster than the second, until he abruptly dropped the spoon into the bowl.

"Let me-"

He then took hold of the veil's edge, and flipped it right back from his face, so that he might be wholly engrossed in the business of eating.

Strange, how Orikan made such a fundamental activity the subject of pure awe. Imotekh felt almost out of himself as he watched the cryptek eat, his every move laced with an enthusiasm he'd not thought him capable of before. Orikan did not even stop to let the porridge cool, even though every bite was piping hot; where the spoon came away with more grains he chewed them thoroughly, delighting in the slight firmness to his teeth, and when there was more broth he sipped and savoured the rich creamy thickness upon his tongue. There was not a single complaint of too hard, too soft, too flavourless. Anything but.

The usual soldiers' fare: dry the hell out of it, bake it into bread, or throw everything into a stew. Flavourings were negotiable, foraging inconsistent, and sometimes even the fundamentals of nutrition were up for debate. Imotekh inwardly praised himself for saving up his salt-rations - food at the cryptek temple was bland, or so Orikan had told him, the boy might've hankered his whole life for some seasoning - as well as taking the time to collect mushrooms during the long forest marches, staying up late all those nights to dry them carefully over the brazier. He could do little about the quality of their grains and pulses, but where others might've tossed them into a pot straight away he'd taken the time to process them even further. The barley-grains he toasted prior to boiling, the legumes he soaked overnight then ground to a fine paste. Orikan was not partial to meat, so mushroom broth it was, simmered so slowly that it took almost an hour to extract their savoury depths; then came the grains, then the vegetables and a splash of seed-oil, the legume paste stirred into the mixture in between stages for thickening. Who could resist the mix of those flavours, the tender way the mushrooms fell apart between the teeth, the tiny drops of oil melting upon the tongue?

Not bad, Imotekh thought. Orikan's praise was yet higher. Before they both knew it the porridge was all gone, and the soldier found himself eye to eye with the chronomancer, who was slowly licking the spoon clean and dealing with the realization that he'd eaten the whole contents of Imotekh's bowl.

He hadn't asked, or anything. It never even crossed their minds that he should.

A deep embarrassed blush bloomed across Orikan's cheeks.

"Why, Master Orikan!" Not that Imotekh minded. He could hardly keep the grin off his face, so relieved he was to see Orikan finish a meal for once. The fact was even sweeter because the Diviner had favoured him - because no one else, Imotekh thought, had yet come up with an experience Orikan had thrown himself into so eagerly. "There's more where that came from, you'll be glad to know. You enjoyed it, then?"

Chronomancers were meant to be indifferent. Certainly a stranger would've said that of Orikan, with his blank expression and empty eyes. Imotekh, however, had learned him during their past months together: he read sentiment in the microscopic flickers of the veil of Orikan's lashes, how from first taste his ears had perked up and hadn't stopped perking, the slightest drag of his tongue along the lower lip where the residual flavours dwelt. Notably, Orikan did not retreat behind the cloth. Presumably he thought he could've been more graceful, but he did not look away - and, eventually, gave Imotekh a shy little nod.

The soldier laughed. "I thank you for your high praise, sweet Master." He stood and beckoned Orikan up, and the Diviner followed him right away, one slender palm folding like a lotus upon Imotekh's own. "Come on. I think that calls for seconds."