Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dismas whistles, with two intentions in mind: one, to vocalise his pride and achievement, and two, to share it with his friends. The third effect is a ghost of a instinct that surges up Reynauld’s nape like tidewater gulping him under, and he ducks, a quirk of the head to dodge a bullet, a muscle memory from another time—and then, when he has tensed but no pistol report scatters the birds from the trees, he scowls beneath his visor and rounds on Dismas.

Dismas hauls a metal contraption out from beneath a tattered tarp by its handles, and sets in the centre of their camp. He beams at Reynauld. Reynauld looks at it, then at Dismas, then back to animal scat he was investigating, and which he decides isn’t the festered slop dropped from the beastmen and their caprine ilk.

“Hark!” crows Dismas as Reynauld joins him and brushes old ash away from the fire pit, rebuilding it with a stock of firewood. “Come see the bounty I have found!”

The ladies, good Paracelsus and Junia, lay their bedrolls and victuals by the ancient logs that fence in the fire pit like benches, and humour Dismas’ outcry.

“A griddle,” says Paracelsus.

Dismas swings his hand as if to clap her shoulder, remembers the sprain in the socket, and aims low instead to gesture flourishingly at the griddle. “Aye! Fetch the flour, eggs, and milk—we’re dinin’ like kings tonight!”

Reynauld whispers an orison and the dry tinder sets alight; he fans it and it licks the firewood.

“Flour, eggs, and milk.” Paracelsus holds the griddle steady and straightens one of its legs, whilst Dismas cleans out the ash tray and inspects the fuel chamber. “The chemical equation for a satisfying flapjack.”

Dismas snorts, stretching up from his squat. “We en’t making flapjacks, love. I’m talkin’ about a good ol’ pancake!” He strikes his flint and the vents in the griddle glow like eldritch eyes.

Junia, having brought over the sack of food, looks at the griddle curiously, and Reynauld takes the fat from her hand and unwraps it whilst she stares. It already begins to soften through his gloves. He greases the grill plate to put atop the griddle. Dismas combines the flour, eggs, and milk in one of their mess tins, and mixes vigorously. The campsite warms with firelight and cloaks draped over their shoulders, except Dismas’, which is tucked into his bedroll.

“Oh! A hotcake!” says Junia in delighted recognition when the mixture hits the heated grill plate and sizzles into a pale splat. “I knew buying the marmalade was a good idea!” She rushes to the sack of food. Reynauld crosses over to mix the horse feed and source them water from the little stream nearby.

“That’s a—you’ve made a flapjack,” says Paracelsus impatiently. “You’ve made it too thin.”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about? Did you see me add any oats?” Dismas spots the edges of the pancake lifting up and flips it with his bare fingers to a fresh rasp of sizzling mixture, the smell of hot grease, and a golden face. Paracelsus leaps into him, and they wrestle as Paracelsus says, “Not with your dirty hands—!” and Dismas says, “I en’t using your bloody forceps!”

Junia wisely passes Dismas the spatula and Paracelsus her cloak, which she had recovered from the ground. Dismas grunts and Paracelsus' eyes flash with gratitude.

“I remember the hotcakes at the abbey,” says Junia. “The cook made them once a year, after thirty days of fasting. Do you remember that, Rey?”

“They’re pancakes,” interrupts Dismas. It wasn’t the fire painting his cheeks red and irritated.

“Flapjacks, actually,” says Paracelsus, snipping her forceps threateningly at Dismas whilst she unhooks her bag from her good shoulder and fishes out their last stitching kit.

“Well,” says Junia diplomatically, “since they’re hot and they’re cakes, hotcakes makes the most sense to me, but both pancakes and flapjacks are delicious words for a delicious food. Right?”

Reynauld rattles the cage hooked atop the stagecoach, and the little beast in the cage growls. He shoots it another look once he has settled onto the log near the fire.

Dismas slides the first pancake into Junia’s mess tin and glares at Paracelsus. “You do know what a flapjack is?”

“Don’t insult my intelligence.”

“’Tis a soft, sweet, fudgy bar of oats. It has nowt to do with a griddle. You bake it.”

“It appears you are making your flapjacks incorrectly.” Paracelsus swipes the mixture tin from Dismas with dexterity that suggested he wasn’t in too foul of a mood to begrudge her transgression, else he would have dodged well in time. “They’re too thin.” She droops a large, fat dollop of mixture onto the grill plate, her other hand still holding the strap of their stitching kit. “They also do not contain oats.”

“These certainly don’t!”

“Agreed, which makes them flapjacks!”

Junia sits next to Reynauld and spoons some marmalade into the centre of her pancake. “It is a bit thin for a hotcake,” she whispers to him. But then she cuts it up into neat slices and takes a bite. “Oh, it’s lovely!”

Paracelsus flips over the thick pancake with her forceps. Dismas pours a generous amount of mixture onto the grill plate that spreads widely over the surface.

“Flapjack.”

“Pancake.”

Junia mops up the last of the warm marmalade from her mess tin with a sliver of pancake and smiles. “Mmm. That brings back memories. Even here and now, there are good things on this long road.” She calls out, “Did you make one for Rey?”

Dismas and Paracelsus, mess tins draped with their creations, glance over to the mixture.

“Well, if you hadn’t made yours so thick—!”

“If you hadn’t kept pouring so much—!”

Reynauld stands, takes the mess tin of mixture and the spatula, and pours the last spoonful of mixture onto the grill plate. With the spatula, he gently but quickly spreads it in a circle, and the pancake lifts almost immediately. He flips it as the edges crispen and cooks it for not long after before he takes it off the heat. It steams and the smell reaches him through old iron and humid steel. His stomach growls.

Junia slowly spoons some marmalade into his mess tin. Reynauld folds the pancake into a cone and takes a bite; the marmalade has climbed into all the crooks and crevices and the texture is light and delicate.

“What is that?” says Dismas, aghast.

“A crêpe,” says Reynauld.

Dismas, Paracelsus, and Junia stare at him.

“A crap,” says Dismas.

“Madness,” says Paracelsus.

“Bless you,” says Junia benevolently.

Dismas, with the spatula in hand once more, levels it at Reynauld. “You can sleep on t’other side of the camp tonight.”

Paracelsus looks between the mess tin and the stitching kit, and drops the latter so she can sit on the log, unbuckle her mask, and squint happily at her food. “I will be consulting the others on this conundrum, mark my words.”

“That was very nice,” says Junia, “but should we make actual dinner now?”