| # BUZZFEED UNSOLVED.
( 📼 ) ━━━━ ❪ chapter 15 ! ❫
"JAMIE!" RANBOO shrieked, trying to grab them. "Stop! Wait, wait, actually, you're being--Jamie, you're being a gremlin!" He wrapped his arms around them, pinning their arms against their sides.
"Just because I'm non-binary, that makes me a gremlin?" They went to bite him, and he let go. "Jamie! What the actual--"
They doubled over, laughing, holding the stolen spatula over their head, even though he could still very easily take it. Damn his cursed height.
"Jamie, let me actually film my intro. You can...just keep the spatula, alright?" Ranboo grabbed their shoulders, shoving them out of frame. "When I asked for you to help me film, I didn't mean like this!"
They snorted. "You want my help, you get this." He pulled his glasses down his nose enough to glare at them before readjusting, turning to the camera which had caught that entire interaction.
"Ah, America," he sighed, "it's certainly a place, and that place certainly has food that comes from it. That took me like half an hour to think of. Okay, Jamie, now you can be a menace, it's content and makes me money."
They gasped. "And here I thought you loved me."
Ranboo didn't respond, just took the spatula away from them. "Hi, I'm Ranboo, and this is fellow American gremlin, Jamie, because Gordon Ramsey wasn't available." They opened their mouth to complain, but he shushed them with a pat on the head using the spatula. "History will say we're in a different country that's not America actually. It's bananas."
He proceeded to go through and explain how there were going to be three phases of them creating the food; American? American, and AMERICAN.
"Now," he was saying, reaching blindly behind him for Jamie's arm, "I also brought with me an assistant and the proper attire for today. As you can tell, I am dressed like someone in their mid fifties who has completely given up on life! Except my shirt has corgis on it." Spencer patted the design with the kitchen utensil.
He looked Jamie over. "They just stole a shirt out of my suitcase." He cracked up, trying not to laugh. "Jam—why are you like this?"
"Boo, we literally sleep in the same room," they argued, trying to make a grab for the spatula. But Spencer stopped them by slapping the spatula against their forehead, just barely hard enough for it to sting.
"Stop," he commanded, patting their head. "You're here to assist, don't make me banish you to wherever Tubbo is."
Their eyebrows scrunched together, their jaw dropping. "Who do you think I am? Tommy? This isn't my exile arc!"
Filming with him, it took their mind off things. He wanted them there, he wanted to spend time with them, and it felt sweet, even if it was just hanging out as friends.
"Phase one," Spencer said, ignoring them, "which was American?"
He proceeded to go through the list of tools they were going to use, things like spatulas, chopping boards, and a flat grill, which he decided to put his hand on top of.
He recoiled, and Jamie's eyes widened. "That was not a smart idea! I should not have just put my full hand onto the top of the grill." He demonstrated his mistake by doing it again.
"Ran!" Jamie grabbed his wrist, holding it up to their eye level to inspect. "Was that turned on?"
"Nope!" he says cheerfully. "But even if it was, that's okay! Because you see, Jamie-Jam, American food doesn't have to be smart. In fact"— they could tell he was rambling now, yet it made them smile—"it's more encouraged if it's the opposite way!"
He then laid out the ingredients: Hot dogs, buns, a package of burger patties.
"Now, you may be wondering, 'where's the seasonings?!' and to you I say"—he made a long pft type of laugh that made Jamie glad he was wearing a mask—"you want seasoning? Guess what, buddy, this is America! You get—Jamie? Buddy?" His hand fumbled around underneath Tubbo's kitchen island.
"Here, here, I've got it," Jamie said quickly, coming forward to put the bottle of ketchup in Ranboo's hand. He presented it to the camera, and Jamie wrapped their arms around his waist, craning their neck up to put their chin on his shoulder. He didn't acknowledge them, continuing on with his video, but from their view, they could've sworn his eyes were crinkling with a smile.
Ranboo hesitated, his hands hovering over the grill. "Now might be a good time to mention I've literally barely cooked, just at all, just in general, most of the things that I get, usually just pop them in the oven! Or should I just keep that to myself?"
"Ranboo, you're literally going to burn down Tubbo's kitchen." They turn their head to look at him, their expression pure disbelief.
"Maybe I will! Maybe I actually will! Now that I definitely should've kept to myself. Don't leave that in the video!" He thought for a second. "But now obviously you're going to leave it in the video for comedic purposes." Then he scoffs, and Jamie knew he was rambling again. "Now, why'd you leave that in the video? ...That was funny."
"Jamie?" Ranboo asked, moving one hand back to pat the top of their head, "what meal are we preparing first?"
"Obviously, my dear Randy Boo-Boo, the burger is first. The staple of any yeehaw, spray cheese, white bread loving American."
"Right you are, Jamie-Jam. We should probably heat up the grill?"
Jamie let go of him, coming to his side and leaning against the counter. "Yeah, but that takes awhile." They made a face.
He snaps his fingers, rearranging the food next to him. "That's true. But, in YouTube fashion, it'll take like five seconds!"
They nodded, tracing their finger along a pattern in the countertop's marble. "Ran...Spencer, I have something to tell you."
"Jamie!" Tubbo yelled, cutting off his reply. "Where the fuck did you put the remote, Roberts?"
"ROBERTS?"
"Is that not your name?" He appeared in the kitchen doorway, a red hoodie over his head. "I told you it goes on the table, American."
They blinked at him, their jaw hanging open. "Holy shit, you're so bad at nicknames, Britain."
"Grill's warm!" Ranboo said cheerfully, before they could argue. "Tubbo, shoo, we don't need a taste tester yet."
He narrowed his eyes, retreating with slow steps from the doorway. "I still can't find the damn remote, Jamie!"
"On that cheerful note!" He turned towards them. "So, Jamie, the grill's pretty heated by now I would think, I think...we start with the burger first? Because, and correct me if I'm wrong, Gordan Ramsey, that takes longer to cook."
He hesitated, then dropped a raw burger patty onto the flat side of the grill, where it sizzled. He pressed his spatula against it to get those grill lines.
"YEAHHH!" From their angle, they could see his eyes crinkling with a grin. "Oh, Jamie, I feel right at home, this is awesome."
They glanced over his arm, looking down at the meat. "Hm. Chef Ramsay approves, I dub thee Chef Randy."
He stared at them a moment, keeping his spatula pressed against the burger. "I don't think anyone should just ever refer to me as such."
"Ranboo," Jamie said, reciting one of the only portions he'd scripted for them, "are we going to eat all this ourselves? As born and raised Americans who have had these very fine, very gourmet cuisines hundreds of times over and over?"
He tapped their nose. "Excellent question, Jam Jam. No we are not. Our American palettes are just too accustomed to enjoy all of it. No, I'm going to have Tubbo eat some of it, actually, because..." he reaches for an explanation. "He deserves to feel what pain is in the form of American food."
He turned back to his cooking, setting the utensil down to grab a raw hot dog. While his back was turned away from them, they reached for the spatula, trying to steal it back, but Ranboo caught them and threw a piece of plastic packaging at them to get them to stop.
"Jamie!" he yelled. "Its going to burn! Just—come here." He grabbed them by the middle like he had earlier, pulling them against his chest, "Now that the hot dog is almost ready—they squirmed in his arms, trying not to laugh—"we have to prepare the buns. Jamie, don't bite me again! God!" He let go of them, pushing them away from him.
"You calling me a gremlin fits so well!" They said, looking way too pleased with themself.
He seemed about to respond with something sarcastic when Tubbo interrupted them again. "Jamie!" He leaned against the doorway, waving a flat piece of cardboard about half the length of his arm. "You got a package. I had to sign for it and everything, it was so fancy."
Jamie tilted her head, their arms dropping to their sides, momentarily pausing in Ranboo's torment. "Huh? I didn't order anything, I would've told you guys or asked Tubbo to make sure it's okay. Y'know, famous and everything."
He double checked the address label on the front, coming closer to the kitchen island they were cooking at. He shrugged, holding it out to them. "Jamie Roberts, and that's my address."
They took it, sliding the easy open tab across the length of the package, slipping their hand inside and pulling out...a piece of paper. The edges were charred, and portions of the page had haphazard holes, as of someone had burnt the paper.
That wasn't what concerned Jamie, or their friends, who had gathered behind them to see what was inside, no, what concerned them was the message in the middle of the paper, the text black and choppy, more rushed then Jamie had previously seen it.
Did you think I was done?
Tubbo didn't say anything, he just took the letter out of their hands, reading it over again for himself, his dyslexia piecing together the message at his own pace.
"Jamie?"
"It's fine." They were facing away from him, staring right at the camera no one had bothered to turn off. "It's fine...." Their body shook, and they started to fold in on themself. Ranboo grabbed them by the shoulders, gently lowering them to the ground, pulling them into his lap.
Jamie clutched his shirt, the cheerful corgis looking down on them. Their breath was hitched with sobs. For the first time in awhile, they let themself be comforted by the people who meant the most to them.
But none of this was over.