The gray sky has only just begun to retreat from the rising golden light of the sun when the silent scene welcomes its first newcomer. The man is athletically built and dressed in a simple t-shirt and sweats. He runs at a brisk but steady pace. The morning air is still cool enough to leave little puffs of steam as he expels the air from his lungs. He slows and stops at an unremarkable industrial building and takes a moment to stretch his back.
“S-sorry! Sorry! One second!”
The adolescent who had been trailing at his heels stopped a block back to wait for a car to turn through his path. Tag didn’t need his powers of precognition to foresee his apprentice defying the rules of the road in order to be nicer.
When his path is clear, Spindle skips across the sidewalk to join Tag in front of their headquarters, sweating despite the chill. “S-so are we doing this every day?”
The older man nods. “I try to run every morning. It’s a good way to wake up and do a small patrol at the same time.” He picks up two small towels he’d left by the door and hands one to the pink-haired youth. “Didn’t you do runs with your pack before you came down here?” He speaks with a very pronounced Irish brogue.
Spindle happily smears the towel over his face. “Y-yeah, of course. Um. I’m not complaining or anything, j-just trying to remember to set my alarm. Um. A-and figure out how early I’ll have to wake up to get here from the U District.”
Tag wipes the beaded sweat from his salt and pepper hair and beard. “If you’re committed to joining me in the morning I can make your trip considerably shorter.”
“…Oh. OH. Oh, right!”
Spindle smacks his forehead with his towel hand.
“Y-yeah, of course. Um. If you’re willing, that would be great! Driving half an hour each way is, um, a l-lot of carbon. Thanks, Mr. Tag.”
Tag smiles a little despite his usual gruff demeanor. “You’re welcome. This is your home too, Spindle.” He opens the lock and motions for the werewolf to walk through.
Spindle enters like he still can’t believe he’s allowed, checking every corner of the sanctum for disapproving wizards. “Um. S-so, if it’s my home, I can decorate? A-and help secure it? And cook for you guys?”
“I’d be interested to go over with you what you’d like to contribute to the defenses.” Tag closes the door and walks over to the kitchen area. “You’ve got a space you can decorate to your tastes. As far as food? Well, it’s grab whatever you want.” Tag walks over to the pantry and pulls out one protein drink and one V-8 vegetable blend. He proceeds to combine the two in a glass and drink them. “Want one?”
Tag hears a strangled sound from where Spindle’s standing. “Wh-what…what are you doing? Th-that smells- is it an American thing? Um. Irish thing? Irish-American thing? B-because it’s c-curdling.” The kid holds a hand tight to his mouth, trying not to breathe.
Tag pauses and looks down at his brew. “Well, it might not win a cooking contest but it’s an efficient way to get a meal in.” He continues drinking.
Spindle whimpers, fidgeting from foot to foot. “B-but you can teleport wherever you want! Y-you have time to eat real food. Um. That’s not food. A-and it’s not good for you. Juicing ruins vitamins. Please, please d-don’t torture me like this.”
Tag finishes. “Well, I don’t really have to eat at all and this is just… quick,” he says ponderously like he’d never really considered it before. “You don’t HAVE to have any.”
“Th-that’s not the point!”
Coming to a decision, Spindle pivots toward the cupboards, flinging boxes of power bars over his shoulders like a dog digging through the dirt. “Mr. Tag, I’m going to make you eat food,” he declares. “R-real food. And what do you mean you don’t have to eat? Everybody has to eat!”
Spindle finds to his horror that beneath the boxes of prefabricated nutrients and dehydrated nutrients are things like dried ramen packages and old half used ingredients, but nothing that resembles this food thing.
Tag rushes to catch the boxes as they’re tossed. “Hey! Some of those were expensive!”
Spindle continues, his mouth set in a familiar determined pout. “S-so are diamonds, but diamond spirits are awful. If you don’t need to eat, then you should eat to be happy, s-so I’m going to make you happy. Do you have any flour? Um. Sugar?”
Tag sets down the discarded boxes and walks over to the fridge with the same puzzled look. “It’s only a breakfast shortcut.” He kneels over and Spindle can hear rummaging for a few moments then a grunt of satisfaction as he finds what he was looking for. He withdraws from the fridge with an open bag. “Ha! Here’s some flour,” he says, handing it over. The bag reads potato starch and it’s expired by several months.
Spindle recoils like a vampire who took a wrong turn into the sunlight. “TH-THAT’S NOT FLOUR! Um. M-Mr. Tag, I’m going to fix this, and then I’m going to make enchiladas, and I’m going to be grumpy about it.”
Tag holds it up to look at the label. “Well it’s pretty much flour right? To tell you the truth I used it for a ritual circle. It was on sale and a lot cheaper than salt.” Tag puts it back in its chilly place.
Spindle, about to yeet a can of Campbell’s, pauses. “W-wait, you make ritual circles, too?”
“Sure. Usually not with cooking ingredients, but I was in a hurry,” Tag answers.
“Wh-what for? Most of the time you just say stuff that makes my head hurt, or stuff just sort of happens without any preparation.”
“Taking time to properly set a spell up beforehand has definite benefits.”
“But cooking stuff?” Spindle stares as though he can’t believe that wizards would use something mundane in their wizardry. “Um. I use art stuff, but everyone sort of laughs at me for it.”
“Your art? It’s quite good. Why would anyone laugh at that?”
“B-because werewolves mostly beat stuff up for our rites.” He looks at the soup can. “Anyway. We need to get you food. Um. I’m going to run to a grocery store to stock up, a-and then I’m making enchiladas. I’m putting an angry face on mine because y-you’re like twice as old as I am and you don’t know what flour is, and that’s not okay, so you can’t have any.”
The mage looks a little indignant at being called old but takes it in stride. “Look, I know what anger food is for you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you would care so much. Truce?” he asks holding a hand out at the can Spindle had nearly lobbed. He even manages to affect a contrite expression.
Spindle plops the can of muck into his teacher’s palm, his expression still stubbornly set. “Of course I care! Food is, um, i-it’s a nice thing people make for each other because most of us need it, a-and it can make you really happy and healthy when you do it right, even when you’re not being fancy. Um. Making it is really calming, too. M-maybe you could do a ritual where you cook something and that’s the magic.”
Tag slides the surrendered can out of reach should the werewolf be tempted to take up arms again. “Well potion making is a skill some cultivate.”
“Y-you can think of it like that. I guess? Um. I don’t care as long as you eat something that’s n-not radioactive. Um. I’ll be back soon.”
Spindle jogs out the way they came in.
Tag watches the pink werewolf go before shaking his head, finishing his swill and following.
Spindle’s a real monster in the kitchen when he returns. He makes his own red sauce from scratch, and slices meat and fresh vegetables like a celebrity chef. For all his threats of making an angry enchilada he seems to be having a great time, whistling Beyoncé as he chops. “Y-you’ve had enchiladas before, right?”
“Sure I have,” Tag says as he watches from the other side of the counter. “You sure you don’t want my help? I’m good with knives.”
To his surprise, Spindle perks right up. “I thought you’d never ask!” He sets the knife aside and snags the cheese shredder, content now that he’s finally weaseled his teacher into cooking.
Tag silently takes the knife and cutting board and obediently cuts in accordance with his student’s wishes.
–Tobias and Lindsey