A study in multiple fandoms

Compliments to the Cook

He had long-fingered hands that were stained blue and yellow at the tips.  Several of the waitresses had looked at his hands askance when he entered the diner, but Rose didn't mind.  One of her friends' fathers had been a chemist, and his fingertips had been similarly stained.  Blue for copper, she thought.

A glance at her watch told her that the tortes framboises had fifteen minutes to go, so there was no reason she couldn't give the waitresses a hand with the lunch rush.

Rose refilled the man's teacup and twitched the small plate away from his elbow.  He was absorbed in the last lines of a letter and absently dusted the crumbs from his fingertips.

Rose glanced over his shoulder, wrinkling her nose slightly at the greasy state of his lank black hair, and she glimpsed the signature of the letter.

Love,

       Lily

The man's hands tightened on the letter, and Rose abruptly found herself pinned under a beetle-black gaze.  She recovered quickly and lifted the empty plate.

"Another pastry, sir?"

"No."  His sneer was not helped by his prodigious nose.  He glanced at the letter again and added, almost grudgingly, "My compliments to the cook."

"Actually, we have an in-house pastry chef."  Rose hadn't spent all those years slaving away in the student kitchens to be relegated to "cook."  She smiled anyway.  "I'll pass your compliments along."

The man snorted and turned away.  Rose returned to the kitchen, pleased.

***

The croissants for the dinner rush still had a ways to go, so Rose was out helping the waitresses once again.  The infernal girls were giggling over the arrival of some handsome customer, and their voices grated on Rose's nerves.  Though she refused to join their insipid madness, her curiosity got the better of her, so she took the initiative and went to take the man's order.

Rose ignored the waitresses' indignant squawks as she emerged from the kitchen and crossed the dining room floor.  She took her time so as to study the newcomer.  He was tall, elegant.  I the blue jacket adorned with epaulettes and medals was any indication, he was a military officer of sorts,and a high-ranking one at that.  His red-brown hair was too long for him to be merely an enlisted man in dress uniform, of that Rose was sure.  She had never seen a uniform like his before, but this was London, and it took all kinds.  

The man turned slightly, as if sensing her approach, and Rose glimpsed the high line of his cheekbone.  She stopped beside his table, and he favoured her with a polite smile.  His eyes were piercing blue, and he might have been a Russian Ikon.

"Good afternoon, sir.  May I take your order?"

He folded his hands on the tabletop, and Rose saw that he wore white gloves.

"Earl Grey tea, if you please.  Tell me, young lady, is the tiramisu palatable?"  He spoke too-precise English; it wasn't his native tongue, but he had learned it well.

"It is, sir."

The man folded the menu and held it out.  Rose accepted it, careful not to mar the pristine whiteness of his gloves.

"Very well.  I shall place my faith in your opinion."

Rose resisted the inexplicable urge to curtsy and returned to the kitchen.

The tiramisu was mostly done, but there was always a finishing touch, and Rose added it with a flourish.  She paused to admire her handiwork.  Then she grabbed a nice silver dessert fork, scooped up a cup and saucer of Earl Grey, and set out across the dining room floor once more.

The officer barely glanced at her when she arrived, absorbed in the composition of a letter.  Rose set down the tea and dessert.  After a moment of hesitation, she said,

"Anything further, sir?"

"No, thank you."

Rose ducked back into the kitchen and checked on her croissants.  As she worked, she pondered to herself about the new customer.  The waitresses continued to giggle over him.  An Eastern European aristocrat who was also a high-ranking officer of some unknown military force.  Rose shrugged.  This was London, after all, and it took all kinds.

"Did you find your trust in my opinion was warranted, sir?"  Rose refilled the officer's teacup and studied his gloved hands from beneath her lashes.

He smiled at her.  "Indeed.  I had not expected so informal an establishment to employ so excellent a chef."

"I shall tell the chef so."

Those white-gloved hands folded the letter into thirds with a few deft, economical motions.  Then they laid down several notes of currency, far more than the meager snack had cost, and the officer stood.

"I must bid you good evening."  He bowed slightly at the waist, then turned and strode out of the diner.  His strides were marked and even, almost as if he were marching. Career military, Rose thought as she watched him leave.  Then she moved to clear off the table.  She was swept the crumbs into one hand, and that's when she noticed it, a photo lying in the booth.  She picked it up carefully and studied it.  Two boys in cadet uniforms, one older than the other.  The younger was ice-blond with bleak blue eyes to match, an the older was most certainly the officer who had just departed.  In childhood he looked no less aristocratic.  Rose knew just enough French to translate what was written on the back.

Adieu Emille, my trusted friend.

Rose scanned the crowd out front of the diner, but it was useless - the officer was already gone.