Chapter Text
There was a sense of relief that made itself known in the halls of the TV World studio, when no one was awake to cause any sort of commotion. No shoes thumping on the nylon carpet or buzzing of the several headlights towering above. No chatter and gossip of actors flitting from scene to scene. No sense of urgency that came with the cues between the broadcast show times.
It was just the way Ramb liked it.
Tucked under his arm was a 3-ring binder as big as his torso and a pair of keys dangling from his index finger. The liminal silence made every soft, shuffling step and jingling of the key ring echo down the hall. Eventually, as most things here tended to, the current set Ramb was at came to an abrupt stop. The transition from one side of the studio to the other barred by the velvet ropes that garishly adorned the rest of the labyrinthine halls.
A small sign was in front of it— a thick sheet of white cardstock placed upon a thin brass base, reading as thus:
Studio Set Department — WORKING PERSONNEL ONLY. PRODUCTION MAY BE IN PROGRESS.
With an exercised motion, Ramb simply lifted the loose barricade's length beside it to pass by without missing a beat, continuing on ahead. The bright red wallpaper and checkered trim traded its coat for the much more apparent backstage treated oak the further down he went, adding more to the sense of stealth Ramb felt in this endeavor.
His head lifted slightly and he mumbled each of the door's plates to himself while passing by,
"Custodian… Prop… Western…? No, no- Live. Wait, It wasn't that… Ah! Here we are."
The brisk pace of his finally slowed to a stop and he twirled the ring between his fingers in search for a specific key. In front of him was a door much like the others, with a label that simply read the word 'Cooking'. It was in a sickeningly curly lettered serif font which very over the top in comparison to the Arial he'd come to know from usual signage around the studio.
After a moment or two, Ramb had managed to find what he needed and reached up and above his head to unlock. With subtle click, and a loud thunk of adjusting metal, the lock was opened with relative ease. With a push inward with his paw— The following creak showed the door's age with a heavy, wooden groan. In response to its grogginess, he pat its side sympathetically before walking into the pitch-black, unlit set.
Well, this inky darkness made things hardly legible, didn't it? What to do... what to do...
Ramb's head swiveled with a pointed expression, squinting before finding one of the stools next to the doorway. Setting the binder down on the floor beside, he pulled the stool closer towards himself and climbed onto it with a grunt. With no proper lighting to assist, his hands pressed, patted and searched against the wall until he found what he was looking for— A rather large and heavy switch that required both his hands to pull down.
Click.
Kachunk.
One by one, each of the overhead lights came on with that same electrical hum that he was used to and basked under each spotlight were the individual cooking stations that lined the rather long set area. Each of them nearly identical in their layout and appliance set-ups.
Hopping down from the stool, Ramb gathered his things once more and made his way across to the long bar counter that each station was pressed against. Another clamber atop of that netted him entry into one of the several kitchenettes. His chest huffed slightly at the constant up-and-down exertion while he pulled out another type of step-stool, this one found in-between the iceboxes.
"Gonna need me a tracker next time to keep an eye on all these steps. Hoouf... my aching back."
Plopping himself onto the top step, Ramb sat himself down and set the binder he had onto his lap. The plastic lamination made a suctioned 'pop' to free the pages it kept secure as it was pried open. Each one had quite a fair bit of handwritten paragraphs— Ramb's own writing, to be exact. The subtle smudges and patches of faded ink from his hastily written notes were made more apparent the longer he looked.
He kept flipping through pages until he landed on a much more tidy looking one. Displayed was a recipe that was dutifully written and organized on lined paper, taped onto the side of the page with notes in similar pen as before. Ramb's finger trailed downwards over the handwriting to help guide his sockets.
He'd been waiting quite a while to try this recipe.
Over the years, Ramb found his ears always perked up when he heard busywork in the kitchen of the Dreemurr household… with Toriel proudly announcing the steps she would take for her renowned pie. Somehow, her voice always seemed to carry quite well during moments where she excitedly baked her heart out, reciting the steps to herself like a souful ritual. While being tucked in the far corners, not much else of what the Lightners did reached him anymore... So, he tended to keep anything that did close to heart.
Now, see, Ramb was certain Tenna had some of the larger crumbles of what this recipe created always scattered in the TV Dinners. It made sense, of course, but he just had see what it was like to try the real thing!
Besides, it would be nice to have something other than the pre-made slop he was forced to choke down like daily rations. Even as a creature of habit, it wasn't exactly the plug's favorite thing to be eating day in and day out.
Though… It was a bit embarrassing to admit that he was more than a bit anxious about trying this whole baking thing.
Ramb had found out more and more that hobbies weren't exactly things he could pick up easily anymore, either. Not without a nagging feeling at the back of his head. Be it a trade or even something minor, he always felt like he was wasting time or that there wasn't really a point to it. Even things he used to partake happily before arriving to TV world felt… aimless. Anything creative he did end up finishing never turned out exactly right to him. It... honestly made everything feel like he was just setting himself up for failure.
His mouth frowned at those lingering thoughts… hands tightening their grip on the sides of the binder in front of him.
No one would normally need weeks or even months to write down a simple recipe.
No one would need to repeat it like a mantra in their head hours before even thinking of entering the kitchen.
No one would need to hide away and do it at the crack of dawn where no one was capable of watching and—
No.
Ramb stopped his thought process there with a sharp inhale. His sockets shut and his lips sealed itself tightly into a flat line. He gripped the binder even tighter, a crinkle of the paper bending under his filed-down nails.
One… Two… Three…
Opening one eye, he finally peeked at the words again, almost in fear they would jump out at him. He frowned deeper at the writing in front of him and his body remained still. He loosened his hold of the papers and tried to shoo away the lingering thoughts that made him doubt his efforts,
"…C'mon, Ramb." He chided himself, following up with a prod to his own forehead, "Can't be getting cold feet about this again. Not when you've already gotten this far."
Plus, he had already prepared something for this a few days ago. So, it's not like he was fully unfamiliar with what he had to do next.
A breath Ramb didn't know he held escaped his mouth as a shaky sigh. Another grunt of effort was uttered as he lifted himself back onto his feet, setting the book openfaced on the counter. No more dillydallying, it was time to gather what he needed for all this and actually carry through,
"Last time we got to this part, you only made it to the door of the Green Room."
Trying to motivate himself, he rummaged through the lower cupboards for the measuring cups, bowls, and a pan. His hands pawed at the higher reaches, disgruntled at the fact he had to climb onto the counter to get what he wanted. The nails of Ramb's adjusting rear feet clicked and his hands finally gaining purchase to the cabinet above, taking out the bags and bottles as dictated by the recipe book beside him.
"This... is an improvement." he added finally, just as extra reassurance.
Once everything he needed was lined up nicely, he hopped off the counter and wandered to the ice box beside the stove to procure the eggs and dairy. All the while, he mentally thanked all the stars on the faded wallpaper for giving him something at ground level for once. The last thing he grabbed was a large dish tin, wrapped thoroughly with blue tinted plastic wrap. With one more scramble to the top of the step-stool, Ramb finally felt he was ready to begin.
For the most part, everything went smoothly. Even though it had been cooling a few more days than he liked, the crust in the tin that he managed to prep prior to today had rolled out fine.
Once fit in the tin and laid appropriately, it was set in the oven to bake.
Meanwhile on the stovetop side of things, A mixture on low heat was to be diligently whisked to a proper consistency. His head kept wanting to turn to the book to check… but he much rather not burn what he was concocting.
Deeming it proper, he began with adding the egg yolks to it. It was a process that confused him, which was only understood once he tempered them enough. Before long, the thick and strong smell of cinnamon and something akin to caramel waft about as he continues to mix once more whilst adding even more extracts and a splash of other things to assist... Within a couple of minutes, his mixture was a thick, creamy, and almost pudding-like texture.
All in all, it was smooth sailing and his momentum starting to really pick up! It was—
BZZZZT!
His hands fumbled with the wooden spoon in hand. Cursing under his breath, he gripped his utensil close to his person and head snapped over. His ears spiked upward at attention of the loud and abrupt noise.
A small white device set on the stovetop was to blame.
Ah.
It was just the damned timer for the crust. The one he set himself. Right.
Ramb let out a shakey breath, pulling the stepstool away and turning off the heat in the oven.
Grabbing a pair of mitts, both of which were decorated with an assortment of TV Time styled Tenna heads, he proceeded to pull the crust out and set it on an unused burner,
"Almost done…" he muttered, adjusting the tin with a few more turns.
All there was now is to add the mixture and let it rest! Despite the small scare, Ramb was, in fact, basically finished!
Though, pouring the mixture into the tin was… a challenge, to say the least. Lifting this sort of saucepan as a smaller Darkner was just another glaring fact of how Tenna's domain was a bit of a struggle to navigate for simple tasks like this… as if the stepstools scattered about weren't already enough of a reminder. He was determined to make it work, nonetheless.
With a shakier than desired pour, the filling was set in the prepared crust. It was then smoothed over with back of the spoon he almost lost in his startled grip earlier,
"Alright… Lovely! Now… do I just…"
Ramb head craned to the book finally, hoping its pages would guide him one last time,
"Set out… then refrigerate. Simple enough! I'll just clean up and it should be good to set."
He gathered everything and sorted them back where they belonged, leaving everything more properly organized and put together than he found them, in all honesty. Ramb then shuffled himself over, setting the cooling pie he created into the icebox. The pie was nestled beside the cartons of milk, the set up inside almost picturesque enough to fit into one of those fancy menu pictures.
For a while, he simply stared at it, his sockets softened with a small smile tugging at his face. Then, as if talking to an infant being set to bed, Ramb's voice was quiet before speaking towards it,
"There. Nice and cozy, eh? I'll try to slip off tomorrow and see how you've settled. Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone."
The fridge closed with a click and Ramb left to continue the rest of his day, scurrying back to the Green Room to man the prize corner and tend to the rest of the crew as they woke up.
Periodically, the image of a future slice of that pie would come back to the forefront of his mind. Even as he would polish glasses or sweep up wrappers by the couches. It was hard not to look and carry himself uncharacteristically more genuine throughout the day about it all. He wasn't exactly certain if this was conceited of him, but… Ramb was pretty proud of how things were going so far. The fact that he managed to get that thing made at all made him happier than normal standards.
He just hoped it would taste as good as it looked when he came back later.