Chapter Text
“Now half an onion to caramelize..a few cloves of garlic to taste..and a stick of..butterfly butter.”
Charlie recalls to herself.This was a dish that always made her feel better when she was sick or just feeling blue,though she's never made it by herself before.
A warm and cozy bowl of potato soup.Oh the memories of topping it with cheddar,and homegrown green onions.It gave her butterflies that haven't fluttered in a while.
“Stir consistently so as to not let it burn..”
“And then add a whole box of chicken broth.”
Winona explains to excited Charlie.
Winona heads over to the milk crate and grabs a bottle of extra cream,handing it to Charlie. She lets out a gasp of excitement.
“I can do it? I can do it?!” Charlie's joy was contagious as Winona laughed before placing a hand on Charlie's shoulder.
“Of course,you'll learn better by doing rather than just watching.” Winona insists while playfully pressing on Charlie's nose like a button.
Winona scoots over a stool with her foot,and hoists the excited little girl up.As Charlie dumps the heavy cream into the cooking pot, while Winona rushes to add the chopped potatoes.
“Now stir,stir,stir!” Charlie excitedly listens to her sister's command.While she does,Winona takes it upon herself to quickly grate the cheddar,handing Charlie the last little piece as a snack.
“Now just a few more minutes to help it thicken,and you can have as many bowls as you want.” Winona assures as she grabs Charlie off the stool,before spinning around making her laugh.With an old wooden ladle, the warm soup was poured into wooden bowls,and as Winona hands her her serving-
“Now what do we say?”
“Thank you Winona.” said with nostalgic bliss,as Charlie looked in the crockpot.It may not taste exactly the same,but it was close enough.
It's once more served in a wooden bowl,though sadly no spoons. Charlie walks over to a still resting Maxwell.
‘...I still don't understand how sleep can heal such wounds..’ she thinks before attempting to rouse the sleeping frail man.
“Come on Max…” She nudges his shoulder.
“Come on paper bones…” Charlie puts the bowl up to Maxwell's nose,which makes him snort at the scent of the onions.
A moan full of pain from his joints,and exhaustion releases from his lips.
The bowl is placed beside him as Charlie partakes.The warmth from the soup makes the slight sting of autumn seem so faint.
It's sipped carefully to savor every moment.
In the corner of her eye,Charlie can see Maxwell sit up.
Maxwell however does not immediately take his bowl.Confusion rattles in his mind.Out of all the soup he's included in this twisted world,none of which smelled like this one,nor did they lack bones,blubber or such accessories.
The feeling of his ribs being pulled on had thankfully subsided.However the soreness in his joints still held residence in his body.
His head felt as though fingers were entangling themselves in every wrinkle of his brain.The ever growing cold wasn't helping.
With his stomach rumbling like a perpetually used drum,Maxwell finally grabs his breakfast.
Taking in sip after sip.The creamy broth mixed with the soft potatoes seems to wash away the heaviness in his bones.The clouds of one's mind also seem to dissipate.
Maxwell can't even tell he hasn't let the bowl away from his lips until it runs dry.Charlie sees a look on his face she knows she's done before.A silent beg for more.Still she tentatively sips hers,turning away from him.
“Thank you,Charlie” Charlie finds a small warmth being made away from the soup.
—----—-----------------
The washing bin,now holding two dirty bowls,was being attended to by Max.The quiet left him with a wandering mind.
That infernal tune was faintly playing,as though played from a long distance.Far but never truly stopping.He can feel the washing cloth fill the gaps in between his fingers as he holds it so tight,you'd swear his knuckles would redden.
Do you miss it,Carter? ‘Fuck..OFF!’ Despite it being a thought,Maxwell takes the cloth,and throws it in the basin for emphasis.
Dirty water splashed his face,and his breath was now ragged.
He leans on the basin,looking into the water.
His claws gripped the basin tight,claws scratching the wood. He hates what greets him in the water.
Closing his eyes,Maxwell tries to change the frequency.Recalling old singers,ones who sang with passion,ones whose emotions bled into their tunes.Cabaret's jovial and free.Bars lively and attuned.Any tune would be better than this infernal melody.
“CAW!” This'll do. ”!—” Maxwell jumps away from the basin.A crow was perched on the crockpot.A pesky bird they were,Maxwell still doesn't recall ever making them here.
Memories of a poor boy losing snacks thanks to these bastards ensured that.
Despite alerting Maxwell to its presence,the damn bird just sticks to staring at him.Its coat seems to be thicker than the average crow,maybe a sign of winter's approach?
Its eyes are as black as its feathers,though a hint of bourbon can be seen with the sun beaming.
Maxwell found his anger turned shock turning back into anger,and without a moment of hesitance.
“CAW Yourself!” Maxwell hears himself and pinches his nose,he feels ridiculous.He tiredly reaches to grab the cloth once more,and then the damn bird flies into the basin. “CAW!” “Oh you LITTLE—!”
Charlie makes easy work of the rest of the garden.Her grass woven basket was now full of carrots,a few leftover potatoes,toma roots,corn and a single dragonfruit.With the chest by their scarecrow now full of seeds,she makes her way to the ‘kitchen’ area.
This bird seems braver than the others who should've run by now.Flying around Maxwell all the while seemingly responding to his inane frustration.”CAW! CAW!” Maxwell feels as though he's being laughed at.
“CAW! You damn bird!” He yells whilst futilely trying to grab said nuisance. The bird almost looks offended as Maxwell ‘caws’ back at it.
Maxwell reaches down,grabbing his shoe.
“CAW! YOU SON OF A-” “Max?”
“!—” Maxwell almost drops his shoe.
“Are you…okay?” Charlie's confusion almost hid her will to laugh.The crow stares at her.
“...I..I'm fi-” “CACAW!” the shoe wooshes by Charlie,as the bird flies off.”..I'm fine.”
“Alright.Sure.Lets go with that.” Charlie ‘agrees’ before quickly putting away the fruits of their labor,laughing in between each item.
“Damn bird…” Maxwell bemoans.This fuels her laughter,almost making her fall into the ice-box,having to hold on to the top for support.
After catching her breath “ Huhhh…oh I'm sorry..I'm sorry ooo boy..” Maxwell's face made a toma root look pale.
Charlie's laughter tapers off leaving a calmer,more jovial spirit.
“Anyways,I made us lunch-” she closes the ice-box “Now,how about you think of dinner before you get back from getting wood?”
With that she walks off,leaving Max to collect himself.
His embarrassment slowly fades when he hears something shift.Looking over his shoulder,Maxwell finds an annoying visitor.
“....Little shit.” Maxwell mumbles to himself.
If a bird could smile,Max could swear this one would.
Rubbing his face out of exasperation,he finds he's truly alone.A single jet-black feather in the crow’s place.
“...” He pockets the feather.”Where's the axe?”
—--------------------------
“Mmm! She's quite the cook!” another spoonful is eaten.
Instead of straw-rolls and wooden bowls,this dinner has been served in a painted glass soup dish and on a decorated table.Its well woven maroon tablecloth was adorned with a white vase filled with burgundy dahlia flowers.
The silver spoon was dipped in for another bite.Every spoonful felt like a taste of comfort.
Bits of fatty bacon,savory cheddar cheese,and sour cream.It took some revolve to not just drink the whole bowl.
Between spoonfuls,there's tentative sips to a sweet cup of rose tea.
Does this please you,Sire?
“Mmm! Oh definitely! Hmm it's been a while since I've had a good meal.”
Wilson looks over to the opened peek into his favorite little world.
Having a birds eye view of his subjects is such a treat.Maxwell on his 15th tree,and Charlie taking up sewing some wintery attire.
With a swipe of his hand,the view changes.
From a fiery Willow making charcoal of an entire forest,to a scared Wolfgang having night terrors.Poor souls..with every swipe there's another story.Wickerbottom’s magical prowess on full display as she summons lightning with every flick of a page,or the clumsy frightened Wes running from a pengull.
Unbeknownst to Wilson,white lilies grow among the dahlias.Now it feels too cold for soup.As he looks away from the window,Wilson begins to ponder his choices.
…..Sire…..
Was this really worth it?
…..Our king…….
Was this really the right choice?
It almost seems like smoke retreats from Wilson's hair as the fiery display lessens.
The tea’s finished in one last swig.He can feel their eyes all over him.Every inch of movement,every breath,everything felt like he was under a lens.Like a bacterial specimen.
Eyes—judging eyes,hateful glares,and spiteful words.He can hear their poisoned tongues wriggling behind their cold hands.
He knows what they think of him.The runt of the pack.The waste of effort spent.The failed student.He sees their eyes staring at him,so full of pity and disdain.He’ll show them–He’ll show them!
The fire resparks anew,he can almost feel its heat on his neck.
The king almost tears his lab-coat where he grips in anger.The flowers now wilted petals surround the vase.
He's going too small, that's it! He can do better! He can do more! The king looks back at the window,and his doubt almost resurfaces.
Getting up to get a closer look,Wilson grabs the bottom,and brings it close.These strange souls..he wonders what brought them here.
A fierce viking now running after rabbits,a lumberjack looking somber whilst staring at the moon in its crescent phase,and a familiar spider child.Wilson feels an uneasy pit seeing them all.
However there is work to be done..maybe he should utilize a focus group of sorts.
And he knows just the two that would work perfectly.
For now he closes the window behind him,and sits back down in his red armchair.
His pity now being given to the empty vase.
“Oh..those won't do.” With that red poppies and orange lilies grow from the rotted stems.
As well as a wordless wish came to be,as a glass of wine appears in the kings hand.
As he reclines in the chair,the king finishes the glass in one drink.He steadys himself by thinking through each taste,subtle and blatant.
With his flame now sturdy,no longer blazing nor ashen,the king decides to get to work.