Here is Home • The Pack

Chapter Twenty-One

"Hey Mumbles," he says, "I'm making some grub. You want any?" He doesn't think Preston's actually going to reply, but he offers anyway, because hope's a bitch.

Stark silence is his reply.

Lachlan's eyes twitch a little with annoyance, but he tamps it down for Preston's sake. God, he's going to kick his ass when he gets out of this shitty funk. Fuck what Mitch says about that TLC crap.

"Right, so I'm making some soup, and you're going to drink it when I come back. We clear?" he orders, raising an eyebrow that he knows Preston won't see. His patience is rewarded when the bundle of blankets shifts slightly.

"You're a shitty cook," a disembodied voice croaks, and Lachlan can't help but feel a wave of relief. Preston's replying. He's coming out of it. He's not moving, and his voice sounds like he's decided to inhale a couple of shipments of cigarettes, but it's something.

"Fuck off," he replies automatically, and then winces because now is not the time to be a bastard. Thankfully, a soft laugh assures him that he didn't just fuck it up.

He waits for Preston to say something else, but nothing else seems forthcoming. "So I'll just cook the shit. I'll let you know when I'm done," he tries, hoping for another response.

Silence.

So much for fucking progress, Lachlan thinks as he ruffles the tuft of hair sticking out of the mountain of blankets and shuts the door behind him. He glances at the living room, where Ruby is now happily clapping her hands and singing at the TV. He could still remember actually being stabbed by accident by Jess in front of that same TV, a couple of years back. Now he's cooking soup for his depressed boyfriend while his daughter sings at cartoons. Hell, he got fucking shot almost everyday, for christ's sake. He used to be a badass, so when did his life get so domestic?

Right. Lunch. He grabs a giant pot and settles it on the counter with a bang, wincing at the sound when he realizes that he might be disturbing Preston. He cooks a lot gentler after that, making sure to not make too much noise. It's difficult, but he manages. As he throws the tomatoes in, he's suddenly confronted with the memory of the first time he'd tried cooking. He'd been 6 back then, and his mom was still alive;

"It's too fucking high mom! I can't reach!" Lachlan grouses as he balances on a stool. He's still so short that he can't actually see over the top of the pot, let alone put in the ingredients.

"Language!" Maise scolds, cuffing him over the back of his head while he giggles. Sighing, she wraps her hands around the young boy's torso, lifting him clean off the ground.

"There, you see it now?" she asks with fake-annoyance. Lachlan can hear the smile in her words though.

"Yep!" he crows, tossing the onions in with gusto.

After half an hour of Lachlan whining about the soup taking too long to cook, it's done. Maise's barely put the bowl on the table with some bread before he lunges at it like a ravenous wolf. It's not often Lachlan gets to eat a full meal like this. He vacuums the soup, and holds out the bowl for seconds to his smiling mother.

"Next!" he demands, trying to emulate his father's gruff tone. Maise is not amused.

"Ask me that in a better tone or I will drink it all myself!" Lachlan stops, wide-eyed, before grinning suddenly with a smile that screams 'eureka'. He bolts off the chair, making his way to the pot. He manages to get a hold of the ladle with both hands, intent on getting the soup himself, but there's just one problem.