Inspired from otpprompts: "Imagine your OTP living together for the first time and realizing neither one of them can cook. They spend weeks together trying to learn how from the internet."

"If you can't cook, and I can't cook…" Malcolm started, scratching his head, "then who's gonna make the food?"

They had decided that the tiny shack of a house they had found the day before would become something of a hideout for them, a place to go when they were taking a break. At least, it would be, until they had to pack up their things and high-tail it out of town. It was dark, almost devoid of furniture outside of a tiny, broken bed, a couch with more tears than seams, a small kitchenette, and a splintered table littered with various loot they'd lifted off of unsuspecting victims. A dim oil lamp scattered only some of the shadows in the windowless room. A pity he couldn't see the features on T.F's face clearly in such poor lighting.

The house was settled in an abandoned coastal town on the Blue Flame Islands, hidden by the cliff sides and the heavy mist which rolled in from the roaring sea just beside them. It was a long trek from Bilgewater to their base of sorts, but it would keep them safe when they were in a pinch and needed a place to sleep at night.

A hole in the roof leaked tiny droplets of water onto the wood-burning stovetop, and Malcolm grimaced at the repetitive noise in the otherwise silent room. T.F.—or whatever the fellow's name was; neither had thought to disclose their full identities, not yet—had a blank look on his face, but his arms had gone rigid, a silent admission to his culinary ignorance. Malcolm sighed almost dramatically. He'd never even touched a stove before, himself. Never had much a chance to.

"Well, I ain't gonna sit here and starve," Malcolm said, slapping his hands onto the table to prove his determination. "There's gotta be something around here that someone left."

The abandoned shack had come with a nice bit of paraphernalia, from old trinkets and jewelry to a small library of books, which they had pushed off into a corner when T.F. and Malcolm had broken into the house. Now he found himself squinting against the darkness, looking at the soggy bindings and trying to find some kind of book that might help fill his grumbling belly.

"What're you lookin' at those for?" T.F. asked, his gruff voice mixed with equal parts annoyance and curiosity.

"There's gotta be something…" Malcolm grinned at a thick book underneath An Anthology of Bilgewater Sea Life. He pushed the large textbook off the other and hefted it up to more clearly see the cover against the light of the oil lamp.

"What's that?" T.F. asked, tilting his head forward to look at the cover. He made no indication of understanding, so Malcolm answered by flipping the book open to a random page and shoving a picture of some kind of beef stew back in the man's face.

"A cookbook, and we're gonna learn how to take care of ourselves."

T.F. raised his eyebrows, a grimace pulling at his lips. "I never been a good cook, Graves. You sure this is a good idea?"

Malcolm laughed loudly, booming whoops escaping him as he considered T.F.'s question. But his eyes sparkled brightly despite the dimness of the shack. "I think this'll be just about the stupidest thing I ever done. Now, are you gonna just sit there with your mouth hangin' wide open, or you gonna help me figure this damn thing out?"

T.F.'s mouth twisted further, but he took Malcolm's outstretched hand and pulled himself out of the chair. "Yeah, well, you can do all the readin'. My eyes ain't too good in all this darkness." Malcolm watched the taller, much lankier man shamble to the kitchenette, having to lean down a bit thanks to the low ceiling of their hideout. When he didn't follow, T.F. turned back around and grunted. "You comin' or what?"

"There any food left in this place?" he asked instead of answering his partner, but he pushed T.F. out of the way and set the heavy book onto the dusty counter. The course wood surrounded a tiny basin that collected water from an iron pump's spigot. It looked like the well it was connected to would have run dry, the faucet having been rusted for quite some time. But when he tested it, lifting the pump up and down to let loose the wear of abandonment, water flowed eagerly from it, filling the basin with cool, fresh liquid.

T.F. pulled on the handle to the ice box, but cool air did not pour out of it. Whatever he found inside would probably be bad. "Well, there's stuff in here, but I can't tell you what it is. It's all black and slimy."

"Toss it," Malcolm said with only the tiniest of shudders, "and keep looking." He turned back to the book and squinted at the tiny print while T.F. shuffled around behind him, opening cabinets to try to find something which they could use to practice with.

There were terms on the page which looked more like foreign words to him, and a shadow of doubt crossed his mind. He'd be fine living off of stolen meats and hastily prepared sandwiches, he figured, but as he listened to the increasingly annoyed searching of his partner, a toothy grin spread along his face, wrinkling his nose. Nah, he'd have more fun this way, and it'd be a good way to get to know the fellow a bit more. And since they would probably be cooped up in this town for a few days while word of arson quieted down in Bilgewater, they couldn't yet risk going back to the Slaughter Docks to get themselves some food.

"Some rice, I think," T.F. mumbled as he hauled a large bag out from a cabinet. "Got some honey in the ice box. Lots of different types of beans, but don't ask me what they are. Everything else is rotted. I'm not touchin' it." He pulled out the various items and placed them on the counter opposite Malcolm, along with small jars of spices that Malcolm didn't recognize, even as he scrutinized them.

"You good with a net?" Malcolm asked, surprising T.F. The man nodded, and Malcolm shooed him away from the kitchen. "Go catch us something on the shore. I'll figure out the hard stuff." T.F. didn't need to be asked twice, and he quickly left the shack, careful not to hit his head on the door frame as he exited.

Alone with the daunting task before him, he scanned the book to find some kind of recipe that could use what few ingredients he had at his disposal.

"What's with all the numbers in this damn thing…?" Malcolm grumbled to himself as he flipped through the torn, age-weathered pages to find something he understood. The book seemed to be written on a much higher level than he could cook at, and with a sigh, he flipped to a page at random, hoping it would be something easy enough for the two of them to make.

He hardly glanced at the faded picture of some kind of fish before he turned away from it, deciding he needed a smoke to get through this. He crossed the entirety of the shack in just four steps and dug through the little knapsack he'd brought with him as he and T.F. had fled Bilgewater. There was a bottle of whiskey, which Malcolm immediately retrieved from the bag and set on the table next to him, causing the legs to wobble and shake under the new weight. He pawed his large hands through the Serpents he'd stolen from the bartender of the tavern until his fingers brushed against a fat cigar. He pulled it out with a grunt and stuffed his hand back into the bag, retrieving a small pack of matches.

"That's more like it," he said into the silence as he fumbled with the matches. As the head caught fire, he put it up to the cigar and inhaled the sweet smoke, immediately feeling calmer and surer of himself.

He didn't return to the book, instead searching the cupboards that T.F. had looked through for something he could use to cook whatever fish he brought back. Next to the stove he found a small, iron skillet and a pot, both equally worn and stained in varying disgusting colors. With a shrug, he placed the skillet onto the stove top and the pot into the basin.

"Wasn't much, but I got something." T.F.'s deep voice echoed through the shack as he opened the door. Malcolm didn't look back to see him, but he motioned for him to come into the kitchen area. He saw the green of T.F.'s vest just as two fish were chucked at his head.

"What in the hell?" Malcolm spun around to face T.F., only to meet his bright, sea-green eyes alight with humor, his mouth drawn up in a cocky grin and his muscular arms crossed over his chest. He placed his hands on his hips and, looking straight up at the man, he frowned. No matter how good-looking the guy was, Malcolm was not the type to be toyed around with.

T.F. seemed to sense this, but his smile never left his mouth, even as he bent down to pick up the orange fish from the dusty floor. He met Malcolm's gaze steadily as he dumped them into the basin, and then he shambled over to the old couch, falling into it gracelessly. "So, what're you cooking up today, Chef Graves?" The shadows in the shack had covered T.F.'s face, but Malcolm could still hear the smile in his voice. As he turned around to try to clean off the fish, he allowed himself to smile, as well.

"Well, I found something to do with fish here, so I figure we just take and follow this recipe," he explained as he pointed at the book. "I could try to find some way to make this rice, too." He scanned the page and frowned as he read what he was supposed to do to prepare the fish, which he saw were common red drums. Wasn't the tastiest, but it would be good to learn with.

"You don't sound too sure of yourself," T.F. chuckled. He sounded closer when he spoke, and Malcolm glanced over his shoulder to see him standing right behind him. It should have been too close for his comfort, but his partner's presence made him feel oddly calm.

"I never done this before," Malcolm griped. "You sure sound easygoing for one who never did it, either."

The smile immediately left T.F.'s voice, and his tone went flat. "You're really serious about me helping."

"I ain't doing this myself," Malcolm said as his only answer.

A long, exaggerated sigh had T.F. going to the basin. He examined the water pump a second before lifting it, nodding once as he figured out how to work the contraption. As he rinsed his hands under the cool water, he said, "You're gonna owe me something big for this."

Malcolm cocked an eyebrow. He was coming to learn just how dramatic his new partner was. "Name it, and the world is yours."

"Good, 'cause let me tell you, I got the best idea for where we can go after all that arson nonsense back in Bilgewater dies down. Ever been to the Freljord?"

"Ain't never been, ain't never gonna. I don't do the cold." Malcolm felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought of the wintery north of Valoran.

T.F. looked at him over his shoulder and grinned. "Ah, but you did say 'the world.'"

Malcolm glared at the taller man. "Yeah, and now I'm sayin' 'over my dead body.'"

T.F. hummed in response, as if he were in on a joke that Malcolm had failed to understand. Wouldn't be the first time, but he was pretty sure T.F. was just trying to get a rise out of him.

Well, Malcolm wouldn't let him get the best of him. He pointed to a small pile of wood resting next to the counter. "Put some of that wood in the stove," he ordered.

T.F. lifted the soggy logs into the little hole as Malcolm continued to read the recipe. "I'll light 'em up."

Malcolm barely grumbled, ignoring T.F. as he knelt down to try and light a fire to cook with. Malcolm took the iron skillet and rinsed it off. He placed the two fish side by side on the middle of the counter top, leaving the pan to soak off the grime it had accumulated over the years.

He pulled a massive knife from a block near the basin, admiring the soft glint off the steel blade. It wasn't sharp, but he figured it would do. Blade in hand, he felt a rush of adrenaline. Though he knew he was in a tiny kitchen surrounded by no worse threats than a burning stove, the familiar feeling of the knife brought him back to countless bar fights and tussles in the streets of Bilgewater, and the mere thought excited him. He brought the knife down onto the poor, unsuspecting drums, lobbing the heads cleanly off. They fell to the floor and bounced around his boots.

"You're enjoying this way too much," T.F. said, cutting into Malcolm's excitement and dragging him back to reality. He felt a twinge of embarrassment, but one glance at T.F.'s easygoing grin had him calming down. As much as he didn't really like it, the man seemed to have that kind of effect on him.

He settled for a glare—or rather, what he hoped was one, as he couldn't seem to keep a straight face. "And you ain't helpin'. Here—" he tossed the knife to his partner, who caught it with surprising grace, "—take this and skin these drums clean. I don't want no scales in my teeth."

A lazy salute was all Malcolm received before T.F. turned away and began to hack away at the fish, leaving him free to prepare their side dish. He flipped a few pages of the book until he found a picture of some steaming brown rice. Squinting at the tiny words on the page, he began to read the steps out loud. He continued to recite the words, muttering them under his breath as he filled the pot with water and poured nearly the entire jar of rice into it, displacing the water to the brim of the pot.

The crackling of the fire let him know that he was ready to begin, so he lugged the pot over to the stove and set it on a burner. He marveled at how simple it really was to make rice; here he'd been thinking he'd have to pull out some magic trick with T.F.'s fancy cards just to get the rice soft, but according to the book, all he had to do was wait while the water did all the work for him. More than eager to let the water do its job, he leaned back against the wall, losing himself to the nicotine of his cigar.

A sharp hiss shocked Malcolm back into the shack for a second time, and he immediately focused his attention on T.F., who was cradling his hand against his chest.

The sharp pang of some unknown emotion slammed into his gut, and he rushed over to the counter. His own broad shoulders blocked out what little light came from the oil lamp, but he could still make out little drops of dark liquid which he identified almost instinctively.

"You're bleeding." The words were meant to come out gruff, annoyed, as if he were merely inconvenienced by T.F.'s wound. Which he was. It wasn't like he cared about such a tiny little nick on his hand. He'd get over it. But his voice broke as he spoke, and he bit back a grimace at how weak he sounded.

"Worried?" T.F.'s voice was strained, but he sounded no less sarcastic than normal. From his nonplussed reaction, Malcolm guessed that the man had also seen his fair share of blood in his life.

As T.F. backed away from the counter to check out his wound against the light, Malcolm realized with a start that the pang in his chest had been exactly what T.F. said—worry. He cleared his throat loudly, not daring to sound any more emotional than fleeting intrigue. "Why would I be? I ain't your mama."

T.F. paused only for a moment, something Malcolm wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't already been watching him. "No, I guess you ain't." His voice had gone hard, but he didn't say anything else.

Malcolm lifted his eyebrows, wondering how he'd gotten stuck with such an odd guy. Instead of commenting, though, he hurried to his bag and dug through it until he pulled out a thin cloth. The blood stains nearly dyed it red, save for a few orangey splotches to betray its original white cotton, but it was clean enough to deal with a little prick.

He'd meant to toss the cloth to T.F. so he could deal with it, but as he found himself in front of his partner, pulling his slender, calloused hand into the cloth and wrapping the bleeding palm as gently as he could, he made as many excuses as he needed to make himself believe he didn't just want to do it. It was just business, and he couldn't trust the guy to do it himself. There were no ulterior motives. And he certainly didn't like the way his hands fit perfectly around T.F.'s.

"It's not so bad," he mumbled as he tied it tight around T.F.'s palm, which had almost completely turned red from the blood pouring out of the shallow line across it. The taller man didn't pull his hand away or give indication that he was uncomfortable with how close they were. "I seen a man once get his gut busted out of him and live. What's gettin' me is how in the world'd you do something like this?"

"I just missed the fish is all," T.F. said with a shrug as he took his hand back. He didn't seem angry anymore, but his jaw was still clenched, making him seem older.

"How do you miss something that's right in front of you?" Malcolm wasn't expecting an answer, and he didn't get one. "Ah, well. So much for Lady Luck, huh? You can take care of the rice instead. Recipe's in the book."

Taking the scales off the drums was easy. He made sure to be careful with the knife so that his hand wouldn't end up in the same sorry state as T.F., even though he was more than sure he was smart enough to avoid something as stupid as that. As he finished removing the scales from the fish, he reached for the cookbook to find it in exactly the same place he'd left it. He glanced at T.F., who was quietly stirring the pot of rice, scraping the broken wood spoon against the bottom. His wounded hand was resting at his side.

He flipped back through the recipes to find the fish, and as he reached for the various spices, he breathed in a smoke much different from the sweet tobacco of his cigar.

"Uh, Graves." T.F. was panicked, and Malcolm had to stifle a groan as he turned around to meet the flames silhouetting the man. Without hesitation, he grabbed the handles of the pot, gritting his teeth against the scalding heat that seared his hands. The fire hadn't grown too large, but the tips of the flames lapped at his beard. He didn't waste time dumping the pot into the basin, getting the heat out of his face and off his hands. With a sigh of relief, he pumped the lever and let water gush onto the fire, causing it to hiss and die down.

Ignoring the stinging of his hands, Malcolm stared at T.F. His eyes were wide and the ends of his dirty, dreadlocked hair looked a little singed, even though he couldn't be sure. In his hand was the spoon, which had become charred in the fire.

"You could've got us killed, you know," Malcolm pointed out, but there was no anger in his tone. He was mostly speaking to fill the silence, and he watched T.F. carefully as his partner chewed at his lip, drawing way too much attention to how soft they looked.

"Do you believe me now?" T.F. asked suddenly, his eyes softening a bit to reflect his attempt at snark.

"That you cooking is the biggest mistake I ever made?" Malcolm asked with a dry laugh. "Yeah, I'm startin' to think that."

T.F.'s grin reached his eyes then, and he set the blackened spoon next to the stove. "Sure am glad we see eye to eye, Graves."

"Malcolm."

"Huh?" T.F. had dropped his smile, and his eyes were wide yet again, his body gone rigid. He looked shocked, frozen in place by the utterance of Malcolm's name.

"The name's Malcolm," he repeated, surprising himself with how sure he sounded. He hadn't meant to share his full name until he was sure he trusted this guy, and yet here he was, all buddy-buddy as if they'd known each other for a lifetime.

T.F. coughed awkwardly into his wounded hand. "Ah, er, well then, Malcolm." A silence fell over then, and Malcolm wondered if he'd screwed up, gotten too friendly too fast. He ran a hand down his face.

"Well, uh, I'll just finish making this fish and—"

"Tobias."

Malcolm's head snapped up to look into TF.'s eyes. His face was bright red, as if he were embarrassed of his own name. His eyes skittered around the room, looking everywhere except at Malcolm's face.

"It's a nice name," he assured, walking back to the counter. He tried to drop the subject; he didn't want to embarrass T.F. any more than he had. Hell, he wouldn't even use the guy's name if he didn't want him to.

T.F. snorted, which caught Malcolm off guard. "If you say so. Maybe I'll grow to like it one of these days."

Malcolm shrugged. "I won't call you something you don't like." He had the fish prepared and ready to fry, so he placed them evenly into the skillet and set it on the stove. He didn't seem to have such bad luck in the kitchen, so he assumed their main course, at least, wouldn't catch fire.

"Maybe I'll like it when you say it," T.F. suggested, and Malcolm's face got really hot all of a sudden. The heat from the pan. That's what it was.

"Can't know unless we try, right, Tobias?" he said without looking at the other. He didn't want any kind of confirmation for what he was desperately trying to deny.

T.F. was quiet for a while, and the low sizzling of the fish was the only sound in the room. Malcolm used the charred spoon to flip them over, and even though it didn't work like in his mind, the fish cooked nonetheless, and soon it was ready to eat. He reached back into the cabinets and pulled out some chipped dinner plates and forks. They were dusty, but he'd eaten off of worse. He slid a drum onto each plate and, leaving the burned rice forgotten in the basin, he brought their supper to the table, which T.F. was already sitting at, waiting silently for Malcolm to finish.

"Eat up," he said as he placed the plate in front of T.F., who looked eager to dig in. He stuck his fork into it at the same time he was sitting down, and by the time he was settled into the chair, he was chewing the fish carefully, trying to figure out the fruits of his labor.

"I like it," T.F. answered for him.

"Yeah, I didn't know I had it in me," he replied honestly through a mouthful of fish.

"I wasn't talking about the fish," T.F. said, putting his fork down and resting his head on his hands. "Even though that's good, too."

"Er, thanks." Malcolm tried to keep eye contact with him, but his piercing gaze made him shift in his seat, and he tried to refocus on eating.

"I meant that I like how you say my name," T.F. said, breaking all of Malcolm's concentration, and they locked eyes again. There was a smile on T.F.'s face, but it wasn't one of his cocky grins; it was softer and more sincere than that. "I think I'd like to hear it more."

He cleared his throat, trying to think of something intelligent to say. "Oh, I-I see." As the words left his mouth in a broken pattern, he looked away from the man, almost in shame. Yep, he sure was a real charmer.

To be frank, he'd never heard a name more amusing than Tobias, and he knew damn well he'd be humiliated to have such a name. Strangely, though, he thought it suited the man sitting before him, and he hadn't been lying when he said he thought it was a nice name. For him, at least.

"So when're you gonna tell me your last name?" Malcolm asked as he shoveled the last of the fish into his mouth.

"Oh, no. One embarrassing name is enough." Tobias seemed almost playful, but Malcolm couldn't be sure.

"Come on, it can't be that bad."

He was laughing. "You're not getting it out of me, Malcolm."

"Yeah, well, I can try, Tobias," he countered.

Tobias stopped laughing as soon as he heard his name again, but he didn't look upset. "Yeah, I think it sounds real nice when you say it."

Malcolm didn't even bother trying to deny the flush that heated up his cheeks then.