Page 32 of Pistols and Plush Toys
He started writing down what he would need for sweet potato fries.
***
Usually the hours between meals were excruciating. They took up the bulk of the day, only broken up by Nikolai poking his head in to check how Elliot was doing, and there was only so much anxious pacing that Elliot could do in his room before he felt like the walls were closing in. Being left alone with nothing to occupy himself while he worried about what was going to happen next was almost worse than when Nikolai made an appearance.
But this time Nikolai returned not too long after Elliot had handed over the shopping list and pen. He knocked before opening the door, and this time Elliot wasn’t a trembling mess of anxiety to see Nikolai standing there. Something about breakfast earlier had changed how Elliot saw the stern-looking Russian man. Because he wasn’t always stern—he could make jokes. He could be kind.
Elliot knew he was being stupid. He shouldn’t be thinking of his captor as kind.
But there it was.
“Come,” Nikolai said, beckoning Elliot from the room. Elliot followed without question.
Nikolai led him into the kitchen.
Elliot had seen the kitchen in glances as he’d been led through the house, but the room was tucked away from the dining area, so he hadn’t seen much of it.
Now, he looked his fill, altogether too eager. But he couldn’t help it. He was going to be allowed to cook. Maybe he’d be allowed to again, if Nikolai didn’t hate what he made.
The kitchen was more professionally designed than a house kitchen usually was. There were leagues of countertops,two sinks, and double ovens. It looked like a proper chef’s kitchen.
Because it was, wasn’t it? Nikolai had said that up until recently, he’d had chefs.
Elliot’s eyes traced over the professional grade blender, the high-efficiency dishwasher, and a set of what looked like Japanese knives with covetous appreciation.
Once, Elliot had broached a kitchen remodel with Mattia. Mattia had asked if Elliot was so poor a chef he couldn’t make do with what they had. It had shut Elliot up quickly.
Now Elliot knew it had been for the best. Mattia would have been angry to have gone through all the work and money of getting his kitchen redone, only for Elliot to fail so spectacularly at making good food for him.
Elliot swallowed. On one of the counters was a bag of sweet potatoes, along with a couple of other grocery bags.
“Pots and pans there, in lower cabinets,” Nikolai said, gesturing to the cabinets that ran all the way around to the island. “The spices, they are in drawers.” He pointed.
For another moment, Elliot just stared. “You were serious.”
“I’m always serious about fries.” Nikolai stepped around Elliot to where the magnetic knife rack was. There was also a cutting board. “I’m will cut potatoes,” he declared.
“O-oh, you’re going to help?” Elliot cringed after he’d said it. He didn’t want to imply that Nikolai couldn’t. He just had no idea what his kitchen skills were like. Nikolai himself had said that he didn’t like cooking.
But now Elliot’s eyes drifted back to the knife rack, and he suddenly recalled the conversation about the pen.Oh. Right. Of course Nikolai couldn’t leave Elliot alone, especially when there was a knife on hand.
Elliot hadn’t thought of the pen as a weapon, but not even Elliot was naive enough to overlook the implications of a knife. Not that he’d actually do anything like that. Even just the thought of trying to hurt someone with a knife—with anything—made him want to shudder.
He glanced back over at Nikolai, shifting uncomfortably to find that Nikolai was watching him. There was a shrewdness in the way Nikolai’s blue eyes assessed him. “It’s not what I’m love, cooking, but is just chopping up. Simple.”
“Y-yeah,” Elliot said quickly. “Yeah, of course, if you’d like to.”
Nikolai nodded and then, after a moment of hesitation, pushed up the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt.
Elliot suddenly realized he hadn’t seen much of Nikolai's bare skin up until then, that the man was only ever wearing long-sleeves even though it was the tail end of summer. The moment his skin was revealed, Elliot knew why.
Nikolai's forearms were heavily scarred. Most of the scars were obviously old, nothing fresh or newly healing. But there were a lot of them, up and down both arms. Some were raised white lines, but many were little puckered round dots.
Elliot knew what burn marks looked like. Everyone who spent time in the kitchen tended to.
Nikolai ignored Elliot’s stare and reached for the bag of potatoes, splitting it open quickly with one of the knives before putting the knife back on the magnetic rack and turning on the sink.
Nikolai had big hands and broad palms that worked quickly and efficiently at rinsing the potatoes. One by one they were moved to the cutting board.
