Page 17 of Pistols and Plush Toys

Maybe Nikolai would, if Mattia made him angry enough. If Mattia didn’t acquiesce to whatever it was Nikolai wanted, Nikolai would want Elliot out of his hair eventually. But until then, Nikolai was treating him with relative kindness. And Elliot was bone-weary of the fear.

“I used to work at Red Chili,” he said, feeling bold.

Nikolai's mouth was full, but he raised an eyebrow as if to say, go on.

Elliot looked back down to his bowl, pushing his fork through the food idly. “It was only like two months. I was filling in for someone who was out. I was in school at the time so I couldn’t take a full-time position anyway. It’s how I know of it though. I know they make good stuff.”

Nikolai had finished his mouthful and was now nodding. “You say you were hopping while in training. So you have plenty of recommendations for us, yes?”

Elliot’s cheeks heated. “Um, I guess. If you want.”

“Yes,” Nikolai said. “This very good. And has vegetables. Meredith would approve.”

That twinged again at Elliot’s curiosity.

“You said she wants you on a diet, but you… you look healthy.” As he said it, he felt his face flush even more.

He wasn’t looking , but he’d have to be blind to not notice Nikolai's trim waistline or bulging muscles.

It was clear he took a certain amount of care of himself.

“Yes,” Nikolai nodded. “Is for health. My bloodwork came back not so good and now Meredith, she say, Nikolai you over forty, you cannot have mozzarella sticks for dinner.”

He sighed dramatically and Elliot bit his lip on the laugh. He noticed the twinge of pain and let his lip go. Hopefully Nikolai hadn’t noticed the slip. “You, um, you like fried foods?”

“Yes,” Nikolai said seriously. “French fries are my true love.”

Elliot burst out with a startled laugh this time before he could keep it in.

“You think something is funny?” Nikolai demanded, but he was—he was smiling. Not a large one, just a quirk of his lips, but it was warm somehow, without even a hint of meanness. “Is no joke. I cannot have husband so I’m say, is fine, French fries can have my love.”

“You know…” Elliot started cautiously as the wheels in his head started to turn. “You could try something like sweet potato fries instead. They’re more nutrient dense, and if you bake them–”

“Sweet potatoes?” Nikolai wrinkled his nose, and Elliot felt his own lips twitch again in amusement. He’d seen that very same reaction in children before winning them over to his side.

“You might like them the way I make them.” He said it too confidently, before he remembered his recent track record of making food for people. Mattia . Still, he pushed forward. “They’re, um, baked. A-and seasoned with garlic parmesan and an a?oli dipping sauce.”

Nikolai hummed, tilting his head as if considering it. “If you’re write down recipe, I’m will get ingredients and will try your garlic sweet potatoes.”

The fork that Elliot had been playing with slipped from his fingers. “You want me to cook?”

Nikolai shrugged. “That is something you like, yes? You do not have to, here. I can order food. But… it is boring here, yes? I–” then for some reason Nikolai looked away. “I am not thinking you will be here so long. Your room is boring. If you like cooking, you cook.”

Elliot’s lips parted. He hadn’t expected Nikolai to notice or care that Elliot was bored alone in his room. He definitely hadn’t expected that he’d be allowed to cook while here.

But he couldn’t pass up the chance.

“Okay,” he breathed, afraid to say more and look too eager.

“Yes?” Nikolai eyed him. “You would like?”

“I would,” Elliot said uncertainly.

“Good.” Nikolai sat back in his seat, picking up his burrito again. “I will get you pen and paper, and you can write down ingredients.”

As Nikolai went back to his meal, Elliot found himself picking up his own fork again. Something warm and exciting was blooming inside him at the prospect of being allowed to cook while here. Being allowed to cook for Nikolai, who seemed genuinely interested in trying what Elliot made.

And if Nikolai didn’t like it… Elliot didn’t think Nikolai would react with anger.

He managed to eat at least half of his breakfast bowl before his shrunken stomach protested and he stopped.

When Nikolai took him back to the room, Elliot felt better than he had since he’d arrived. He wasn’t starving, he wasn’t sick, he wasn’t weak and shaky and terrified.

He could breathe.

Minutes after Nikolai locked him in, there was a knock on the door.

“Um, come in,” Elliot said.

Nikolai opened the door. He was holding a pad of paper and a ballpoint pen.

“I’m will give these you,” Nikolai said, walking into the room. “But you’re promising not to stab anyone. If you try, no pen, no cooking, and bad time for you. Understand?”

Elliot frowned, eyes darting from the pen and paper to Nikolai’s serious expression. “Stab someone?”

There was a beat, then Nikolai's lips quirked up. “The pen, you do not use as weapon. Understand?”

Elliot flushed all over when it clicked in his head. “O-oh. Oh. Right. Um, I promise I won’t stab anyone.” It felt ridiculous to say, because it hadn’t even occurred to him.

But it had occurred to Nikolai. That was probably why this room was stripped bare of anything. Nikolai existed in a world where that could happen.

Had happened?

Nikolai hummed, a warmth in his blue eyes. “I am suddenly more certain you would not.”

Elliot ducked his head, strangely embarrassed, and held out his hands. Nikolai deposited the pen and pad of paper into them and then stepped back out of the room, closing and locking the door once more.

Elliot took both to the bed and sat.

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.