Would You Like To Super-Size That?

by D. Sidhe


     From: "D. Sidhe" <dsidhe@attbi.com>
     Date: Tuesday, November 19, 2002 6:06 AM

     "Would You Like To Super-Size That?"
     By D. Sidhe
     Category: Challenge (Chef Langly), Slash, humor.
     Pairing: Langly/Byers
     Rating: PG, for a little language.
     Disclaimers: If wishes were fishes... I'd be up to my ears
     in haddock, actually. And still wouldn't own any of these
     dolls. Lynette's mine, the recipes are mine (believe it or
     not), not much else is. This time out, I'm apologizing to
     Mr. Bell, Mr. Serling, Interstate Bakeries Corporation and
     Jimmy Dewar (Father of the Twinkie), Denny's, Hormel Foods,
     Kraft Foods, and the good people at Burns Philp, who, to
     judge from their website, wish they'd never offered a green
     bean casserole recipe. No food products were intentionally
     harmed in the making of this story.
     Archive: If you want it, take it.
     Spoilers: None.
     Author's Note: I couldn't resist. I apologize profusely. I
     am not a woman of great willpower. This is, of course, my
     own seriously pathological take on Erynn's challenge, and I
     apologize most particularly to her. I apologize also for
     Lynette, but, hey, everyone needs an in-law, right? Despite
     the title, and despite the fact that I'm an inveterate
     pervert, there is no sex here. I'm sorry or you're welcome,
     you decide.
     Summary: Langly's cooking dinner, and Byers is eating crow.

"What do you mean you're not coming home first? That was the plan!"

Byers winced and tried to shoulder the phone a little more away from his ear as he drove. Langly was yelling into the other end of the line like Alexander Graham Bell had never been born. He knew Langly was stressing about this, but yelling wouldn't change things.

"I know, I know," he said soothingly. "But it took a lot longer than I expected."

"Listen, John, I went out and I got everything on your list, and now you're not going to get home in time to do anything?"

"I'm sorry, but I got caught up. I'm on my way to the airport now. There's really nothing I can do about it."

"What about dinner?" Langly wailed.

"We'll just have to go out," John decided. "She won't mind. I can make her dinner tomorrow night."

"Hey," Langly said suddenly, a lot more optimistically. "What if I make dinner?"

"No!" John missed his turnoff out of sheer horror. "Don't even think about it. We'll just go out," he said firmly.

"C'mon, I can do it," the younger man wheedled. "Trust me."

"Ri, she's my cousin. I'm not letting you make her Spam Stroganoff. I thought you were worrying about her liking you."

"Well, I thought if I cooked for her, it might impress her," Langly suggested. "John? John? Hey, are you still there, John?"

John managed to regain his wits, but it took a moment. "Impress her? With 'Fish Stick Stir-Fry'? You can't be serious."

"I can make other things, you know," Langly said belligerently.

"Believe me, I know," John said with feeling. "You can make a lot of other things. Leftover Pizza Chili, as I recall. Hot Dogs Marinara. And my personal favorite, Twinkie Casserole. I sincerely doubt food poisoning is going to impress her."

Langly started to protest, but John cut him off. "Please, Ri. Don't cook. Don't cook. Just find a nice restaurant and make reservations, all right? We should be there in an hour and a half or so. All right?"

Langly slammed down the phone without bothering to say goodbye. John sighed and disconnected. So late on a Saturday, odds were good Langly wasn't going to be able to get reservations at any of their favorite restaurants, well, any of John's favorite restaurants. Langly thought Denny's was haute cuisine. John was just hoping they wouldn't end up deciding between the t-bone and the french dip with fries.


John checked the arrivals board for the seventh time. Lynette's flight was still in the air, and wouldn't touch down for another twenty minutes, it seemed. It'd already been delayed twice, and John's sense of dread was increasing with every second. When he'd gotten there and realized she'd be late, he'd called Langly to get him to change the reservations.

"Well, that's not a problem," Langly'd said offhandedly.

"Oh, good," John had replied with the perfect innocence of a butterfly who hasn't yet spotted the spider web.

"I didn't make any," Langly had continued.

John's response to that had been less than unflappable.

"Relax, Johnny," he'd said callously. "I'm cooking."

John's response to that was unprintable. Once he felt ready to try two syllable words, he'd said, very carefully, "Please, please tell me you're kidding, Ringo."

"It'll be fine, Johnny," was the breezy assurance. "I've got it all under control."

"Are you drunk?" John had demanded suspiciously. "I know you're worried about meeting her, but--"

Langly interrupted him. "Just relax, okay? It's all under control."

"I'll make dinner when we get there," he'd all-but-whimpered. "We'll have a late dinner! She won't mind!" But Langly had already hung up, and his resultant swear word had caused a blue-haired grandmotherly type to sniff primly and move away. He'd thought about apologizing, but abandoned it in the face of the dinner crisis, redialing.

Langly had refused to answer the phone ever since. John sighed and gave up, resigning himself to whatever fate had on the menu.


"John!" Lynnette spotted him before he saw her. She rushed over to him and threw her arms enthusiastically around him, in the process managing to thump him in the back with her carry-on. "Oh, God, sorry." She disengaged reluctantly, laughing at the expression on his face. "How are you? How've you been?" She stopped breathlessly to look around. "And where's your guy?"

John smiled slightly. "He's at home. Let's go find your bags, and then you can meet him."

"What about the other guys you live with?"

"Well, there's Jimmy, but he said he'd probably get home late. And Frohike, Mel, I mean, is out of town this weekend, on a story. You'll get to meet him Tuesday, with any luck."

"With any luck?" she asked.

"Sometimes things come up. Um, Lynnette, I know I said I'd make you dinner, but I had to meet someone today, a source, and it took longer than I expected, so I didn't get home in time to cook..."

"That's fine. I figured I was getting in so late dinner'd be burned anyway," she laughed. "You can buy me a burger."

"Uh, that's part of the problem. Langly, Ringo, is, um, cooking."

She looked at him. "Why's that a problem?"

"Because, well, he can't. Cook, I mean."

"How bad can he possibly be?" Lynnette grinned.

John shook his head. "Very, very bad," he said solemnly.

"That's a terrible thing to say about your boyfriend, John. I'm surprised at you."

He blushed slightly, but wasn't deterred. "So we'll go home and pick him up, and then we'll find someplace to eat."

Lynnette just shook her head. "I'm sure he can't be that bad."

"'Curried Tuna Scrambled Eggs'," John said grimly.

"Well, that's--"

Langly was probably the only person on earth capable of making John interrupt anyone. "'With Dijon Mustard'," he finished.

Lynnette gave that some thought. "So what's he making tonight?"

"I wish I knew," he sighed. "I know he's been nervous about meeting you. He's hoping to impress you."

"I'm sure I'll love him."

"So, I'll do the cooking tomorrow. As far as tonight goes, we'll find someplace."

"Won't he be offended?"

John shrugged. "Possibly not. I usually refuse to eat his... concoctions, myself. He doesn't seem to mind too much."

Lynnette grinned at him. "I bet you apologize better than I can, though."

He blushed and chose not to comment on it. "The van's over there."


"My God, John, how many locks do you have?"

"A few more than we did before we met Yves," he admitted.

"Oh, the infamous Yves. Do I get to meet her?"

John kept his voice mild with some effort. "I hope not."

"Why not? You think she won't like me?"

"Uh, no. It's just that... Yves only shows up when there's trouble. Or when she's causing trouble. Which is about once a week," he said, opening the door. "After you."

"Oh, wow. It looks exactly like I imagined it."

He had to laugh at that. "Dark and cluttered?"

"Techno Chaos" she corrected. "Busy and complicated. It's exactly what I expected."

"I hope you mean that in a good way," came a voice from the top of the stairs. "C'mon up."

Once in the living areas, John put down Lynette's suitcase and performed the introductions. "Lynnette, this is Ringo Langly. Ringo, this is my cousin Lynnette."

They shook hands, Langly a little anxious but doing his best to hide it. It mostly showed in the increase of hyperactive gestures, and John hid his smile.

"The famous Ringo Langly! I've heard so much about you, it's good to finally meet you."

Langly smiled nervously. "Um, likewise." He glanced at John. "Sorta. I mean, lately. I mean, um, he only started telling me about you recently..." he trailed off awkwardly as Lynnette giggled. "Well, come on," he said with forced cheer. "Dinner's on the table."

"Uh, Ringo, we were going to go out," John said cautiously. "Why don't you put some shoes on, and come with us."

"Don't be an idiot, Johnny. I've been cooking for hours."

"Why does that fact not comfort me?" John mused.

"It smells great," Lynnette offered.

"It always smells fine," John commented as Langly disappeared into the kitchen. "And sometimes it doesn't taste too bad. Just don't ask for the recipe, because you don't want to know."

"I heard that!" Langly yelled.

Lynnette laughed.

John followed her reluctantly. Langly gestured grandly at the table. "Voila!"

John stared in speechless amazement.

"Oh, this looks fantastic, Ringo!" Lynnette enthused.

Langly grinned hugely. "'Pineapple Rosemary Chicken with Spinach Pasta in an Olive Oil Dressing'," he declared proudly.

"Sit down, John, and close your mouth," Lynnette told him. "I can't believe you would say such terrible things about his cooking!" she scolded. "This looks absolutely delicious."

John obeyed, still stunned. "Y-you made this?" he stammered.

"Yeah, and you get to do the dishes," Langly retorted.

The counters were indeed cluttered with pans and bowls. John closed his mouth again, expecting Rod Serling to walk in and start narrating the scene. Where was the Spam, the Velveeta, the tater-tots? Where was the canned tuna he'd come to dread? Where, for that matter, were the Durkee Canned Onion Rings? "But--But--"

John's expression started Langly laughing, and Lynnette joined in. "You didn't think I could do it, did you?"

John blinked a few times and cleared his throat once or twice. "I, I, uh, no. I guess I didn't," he said weakly.

Langly got himself together and took a sip of water. "It was pretty easy," he explained, still grinning. "I just decided on what to make, and then I compared it to the list of things you're always bitching about when I cook, and I left those things out."

"What were you going to make?" Lynnette was curious.

"Pineapple rosemary Spam with Macaroni and Cheese and catsup," Langly said promptly.

John didn't want to touch that one with a two foot wooden spoon. "Well, all I can say is, thank you, Ringo. I'm very impressed."

Langly's grin was still firmly in place. "I made dessert too."

"Dear God, not the Twinkie Casserole," John breathed. Lynnette smacked his arm.

"Nope." Langly was smug. "Just for you, John. Humble pie."

end

Harpy dsidhe@attbi.com Handmaiden of the Goddess of Irony
 

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