Stroll

by re- Yamsmos

Responsibility

Had she touched upon the subject of cooking at a moment prior?

Her brain increased its production of continuing to putter along hopelessly amiably, its deeper sections getting off their bent-back lawn chairs to go and scrounge about for the wandering memory. Well... there was meatloaf, and her oven, and... aha! Cooking!

Yes, she'd done it then. She'd lightly tapped the surface of the topic.

She'd have to think of something else to ponder for the time being, seeing as how...

Wait a minute...

It wasn't her cooking. It was Grandma Symphonica's cooking she'd remembered, and her quote-unquote "world famous" pancakes everypony swore were just slightly above ordinary. That isn't to insult her own Grandma, because, well, there weren't too many other things in the world as brutally dastardly and terribly terrible as that. The pancakes, though ordinary in random conversation, were extravagant little bits of eggs and flour she was admittedly missing now that she thought about them. A nice serving of maple syrup imported from Caneighda and purchased at the local grocery store, a nice square of salted butter, and a chocolate chip or two to increase the relative unhealthiness of the whole thing.

Yes, though. She hadn't talked about her cooking before. Her, as in, well, her. Octavia. Philharmonica, obviously. What did Octavia Philharmonica cook when she wasn't thinking stupid things in her dumb head and referring to herself in the third person? What did she scrounge up with all of her salary playing those ancient, beautiful strings? Where did she travel to get ingredients for her five-star meal? Manegolia for her authentic cow meat and greens? The deserts of Saddle Arabia for her freshly-barbecued kabsa? Across the pond for delicate tea leaves?

Her refrigerator, practiced and taught time and time again, for leftover pizza and noodle cups she probably shouldn't actually leave in there that might be a bad idea for everyone and everypony involved?

One of those was true.

And, as a matter of fact, Octavia had never really stepped hoof outside of Equestria, apart from the occasional concert still barely a hair's breadth from her home country's borders.

The time to cook herself a meal came easily, and without a sigh, because, in the end, it was an honestly novice enough task to try sustaining herself with things that she shouldn't try sustaining herself with. Simply throw her stone-cold, practically Hurrying-born pizza onto a dinner plate, or do the same with her noodles and probably begin tearing up at her potential, probable mental handicap, lightly—and by lightly she meant in whatever way she deemed fit in whatever mood she so happened to be in, which more than usually ended up with Vinyl giving her weird, quiet looks as she bumped past her for like sustenance—fling them into the microwave, press a few button combinations she'd ended up writing down out of memory loss, and barely handle living until the whole machine cried out to her that it was done! That it was done! That it was– and then she'd open the damn door, pull out her food, and silently eat it while looking outside her window, wishing she was amongst it.

Her inner musings in the past may have deemed her a slight bit of an indecent slob, but it was quite on the contrary. Besides the fact that she was in the public, scrutinizing eye at least once every month and couldn't afford a cover story about her slightly-increased-by-barely-a-single-waking-pound mainly because her bandmates would never let up, Octavia was careful not to eat too much of one or two—usually two, because the... pizza and the noodles—because of that one story she'd read about the mare in some other country who'd eaten nothing but ramen for half her life and now resembled little more than a four-legged pool noodle. It was always some other figure in some other country. Nothing exciting really happened in Equestria, besides the Mane Six's mishaps, nowadays. When was Equestria going to become host to another legend? Like that one lanky chap who got swole to stop his village from burning, or the oriental mare who gave up her beauty to bestow it upon the world? It wasn't like the country was devoid of talent.

Somepony desperately needed to step up.

She watched her weight a little here and a little there, as in every other month or so, especially since Vinyl very silently, very astutely, very rudely might she add, implied that she had a big ass late one night, but still ate cookie dough ice cream and greasy fast food because... she actually didn't know. Why did she do that? Maybe she was fat– no no no, she wasn't fat. If she was, she wouldn't be... uh... where she... how...

She wasn't fat.

Besides the noodle cups, actually—and the pizza, but that was more a blue moon thing Godsdamn what a good song—there was the bean rice. Noodle cups and bean rice. Simple meals that were equally simple to craft.

Then again, she was pretty much a miserable pile of rubbish anyway, so she'd pretty much ingest anything that met her palate and even slightly pleased her.

See there she was again. Pretty much, pretty much. Did she know any other words besides simply, and pretty much, and practically? Who the hell was she fooling?

Cooking for herself was easy. It was simple. Like lemonade. That's how that expression went, right? Cooking for an entire crew, on the other hoof, was a whole other chapter of a long—too long—story.

As it so happened to be, Octavia was a baker. Noodle cups and bean rice required no real skill. Her twice a year homemade cookies and uneaten birthday cakes required more than a little. It required a lot actually.

She was a baker. She was not a cook.

This may have been a mistake.

She could only stare quietly, ears splayed back, at the pots and pans and dishes and spoons and cutting boards and knives and cleavers and holy hell was that a hatchet? The air making her belly inflate quivered slowly as she now minded it, and could only keep minding it. Oh gods what in the world was she to cook? Did they have eggs? Did they prefer meat? What kind of bread should she use? Sandwiches for everyone? Did they all want a nice hot soup? Some jerky for whatever reason? Did they all just want her to make them hardtack so they could regret both being born and taking up a position onboard a terrible ship?

Octavia cleared her throat and took a step forward. The door up the staircase leading to the outside cracked open, allowed in the rush of the blue, foamy sea and the early morning sunrise, and then suddenly closed. Must have been the wrong way. Too occupied with her own troubled thoughts to take a gander behind her to confirm her suspicions, she felt her gaze shift right toward what looked to be a coat rack. She raised an eyebrow, frowned, then nodded and glowed with a soft smile. Trotting over to the stand, she leaned on her right and pulled at the object of her desire, yanking it free from its finely chipped clasp.

An apron. Despite there being ample enough light streaming in from the windows, she could barely make out the color of it, but shook her head, decided that it didn't matter in the end whether or not it matched her bowtie, cleared her throat again, stopped, cleared it again, and turned back around to assess her situation. Once more, she found herself standing before the little rectangle the crew apparently considered the food preparation counter. An old, patchy wooden countertop with two drawers to her left side, and the wood-fired stove and oven to her right. A single shelf was the abode for what looked to be a collection of herbs and spices, from oregano, to paprika, and to something hastily labeled DO NOT EAT THIS WILL ACTUALLY KILL YOU standing right in the front row for literally everyone to ignore and consume.

Further to the right, past the appliances, was the sink, nothing more than a small counter-set pit with a garden hose for a tap. Hanging from the ceiling in admittedly handy-looking fixtures were more advanced pots and pans, if the term remotely meant anything to... anypony else apart from dear old—young—her. They must have been bought onshore, seeing as how more quality containers were easier to purchase and store than an entire, full kitchen appliance from the local Highe's. What did you do with old kitchen appliances, actually? Uninstall them, sure, but what then? Create a ditch, toss them into that ditch, re-bury said ditch, leave said ditch, never speak of said ditch, and actually forget about said ditch like some kind of unceremonious burden of an accidental corpse?

If she'd been paying more attention, she might have noticed that she was holding and—as of five seconds ago—rubbing her hoof up and down the handle of a steel saucepan nervously, her apron dragging on the floor with its fastening strings loose beyond all Earthly compare. Well, she'd actually felt a name come to mind, but the time to think about tenfold prunes was past, and miles below her. Above? Which one was better, in the long run? Better question: which one made her appear more sure of herself?

She also would have noticed W standing behind her.

She did, eventually.

"Octavia."

"Jeezums!"

She grit her teeth and looked like she were dancing in a native fashion, hooves flying about wildly to catch the saucepan she had accidentally flung upward. With her foolish actions, and manic frantics, the saucepan again flew up to the ceiling, causing Octavia to look straight up and fall onto her back, four hooves in the air as if she were dead on the spot. She shut her eyes and braced for the loud crash signifying her damaging something else besides her self worth, but felt something plop itself into her grasp. Chancing a look, she saw the pan perfectly cupped in her front hooves. W stood over her, claws raised as if he were inwardly debating whether or not to help her up. He and she stared at one another for five whole seconds before W grabbed the saucepan with one claw, presented her the other, and brought her to her four gray hooves.

When it was all said and done...

"Didn't mean t' scare you."

"Of course not," Octavia confirmed, a shiver running up her legs, "you're just naturally tall and imposing and sneak up on me for no reason."

Her half-sarcasm half-legitimately-annoyed retort erupted a bit of a falter in W's own response. He stopped himself in a grunt, hummed, pulled his neck back, stayed it, and thought up something more apt.

"Are you doing okay in here?"

Octavia turned her head and minded the troublesome kitchen arrangement.

"I just want to make sure you're not feeling overwhelmed. You can come upstairs and just say, 'screw it', you know."

Octavia whipped her head around and ran her hooves through her smoky mane. She harumphed. "Fat chance of that. I said I would do it and I..." What? She'd do it? Manage a meal for an entire crew, something she was practically incapable of doing for more than even herself? Stupid idiot. Shouldn't have opened your mouth. Godsdamn her and her– "...I will." She coughed. W raised an eyebrow. Did griffons have eyebrows, really? Where did their brow start?

W began walking around. Octavia, seeing this as some kind of hovercraft parenting, pouted out her bottom lip and all but flew to the countertop. Rearing up on her hindlegs, she brought her hooves up and began pilfering the shelves for anything of actual value.

"So... what's on the menu?"

Octavia grabbed hold of a little plastic container of cumin.

"A tablespoon of cumin and a..." She reached up and examined her next item. "...dash of... blood sugar. Which is apparently sugar doused in what appears to be a red dye or..." She shook the tin. It sloshed about and caked on the sides. "...tomato juice."

"My favorite."

Octavia rolled her eyes and put the two special spices back. "Oh, I bet. Alongside your glorious scones and pistachio ice cream."

"Was that a burn?"

"Most definitely." Or, at least, it was an attempted one. If she knew W, he was built like a wall, in that people couldn't really scale it, and when they did, they looked like a pack of primates trying to dry-hump a banana tree.

...

That was a weird image. What the hell was wrong with her?

"Oh, here."

W brought her back to Earth—or, well, the sea, she guessed—by placing a sizable pot next to her, which clattered on the counter and made her head ring.

She coiled a foreleg, dipped her head, stared at it, and looked back up.

"You were looking at it, so I just thought you were needing it."

Octavia oh'd. "Oh." Dropping back to all fours, and all floors, she stepped over to the counter and pretended to have known what she was doing. "Thank you, W. I guess I might as well go see what there is for the basics."

W was already with her. He pointed a stubby talon toward the nearby corner. "If I remember, there's a chest freezer they keep cold for bread and fish. Dunno about greens." He rubbed at his beak. "Might be in there, too."

"Thank you, W."

Octavia went back to her business, and began opening the two drawers to look for a lighter to start the fire. Finally noticing the sag of her apron—which she also now realized was a dusty, dirt-colored, Earthly-reminiscent brown—she turned her head and tied the strings, only to notice W still standing there rather awkwardly.

The two engaged in a staring match that was one for the ages and recommended for those hard of hearing. Because there was nothing to hear. At least in the room. The sea was still swishing and the crewmembers that were actually awake were still walking about and rousing up a storm outside.

Octavia sucked in her lips.

W blinked as if she'd said something particularly appalling. Unless she'd gone deaf unbeknownst to her, she was sure she hadn't made any wrongdoings.

And then he lifted a foot, then two, stepped away, stepped back, halted in his tracks, made a motion to begin moving again, apparently decided to prolong whatever was continuing to happen, willed himself to go, and finally made for the staircase.

Octavia, feeling a cough and a goofy grin coming up on her face, began to turn around and return to her preparations, only for W to speak up.

"Oh, uh..."

She raised an eyebrow again.

W turned his waist about to his left—a very excruciating task, she felt—reached over to his right hip with his left claw, and pulled out an object that he flicked about with his wrist to unveil. It was white, and black, and... oh!

"You know, I gave this to you so you could keep it."

Octavia sat down on her haunches and took the hat from W's grasp when he showed it to her. Holding it in both her hooves—and simultaneously admiring how soft the thing was—she asked, "Really?"

W snorted. "It's not like I need it." He brandished a grin, now. "Let's make sure you don't go rushing off to give it back to me. It's yours."

Octavia felt a smile grace her lips and reach her cheeks, and she turned the hat around with a hoof, placed it over her head, tossed her mane, and made sure it wouldn't hit the floor.

"Now, you've got a few minutes until Cheers comes down." W reached up and scratched the back of his feathered scalp. "Er... you might recognize him, but... don't let that get you."

W, finally finally, headed for the stairs. Taking a step up, he rested his right foreleg on the rail, turned back, and added, "Oh, and I like my toast crispy on the outside."

Octavia winked and poked the air over his body. "Will do."

He left.

And so she about-faced like she'd once practiced with her brother—which, despite his being younger than her, he was infinitely better at and, also apparently, better enough at to make fun of her for getting twisted in the grass next to their house—cracked open the drawers a slight bit more, and resumed her search for a lighter. Sticking her tongue out, she felt around for the unmistakable figure of, pretty much, a small box, but found nothing but an old oven mitt—which she nodded at and threw onto the counter—a package of shishkebab sticks missing about half their sticks, a bottlecap, a pair of used napkins that caused her to almost vomit upon touching, what looked to be the remnants of a light bulb, and a whole entire hook. As in, for someone's amputated leg. Which can't have been real. Four-legged beings such as them couldn't well function with a hook tipping an appendage, could they?

She thought on it for awhile.

No, they couldn't.

SLAM!

THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP!

...

CREEEEEEAK!

Octavia continued what she was doing, assuming that whoever was behind her was in to just grab a quick bite or two, steal away with a box of mints or something, and be gone. Instead, not another sound met her ears. She found herself curious and, despite every cell inside of her maintaining that she keep her peace, craned her neck around to find an all-too familiar griffon glaring at her with his arms crossed.

His brown robes bunched up because of a probable size miscalculation, his cavalry hat scrunched up against the wall thanks to his "cool guy" bout of leaning, and his frown ever so present on his beak, the griffon that had yelled at Sesame the other day waited for... something, from... someone. Probably her. She wasn't quite sure. If anything, she was waiting for something from him. That accent was more familial to her than the actual person it occupied.

The presumed Cheers spoke up.

"Eet's you, then, innit?"

Cheers. What a perfect, more than apt name for an English-accented griffon with stubbornness on his head and nothing inside his head. Most certainly a nickname. Nobody actually liked to admit they were from across the pond.

Octavia stuttered. "I-I looks like... it–"

"Bloody...!" Cheers started, raising up his claws and dragging them down his hat. Sucking on his teeth and drawing heavy breath, he continued, "Gonna 'ave a chat with Ehndy. You best git–"

"I wanna help!" Shut up shut up!

Cheers straightened a foreleg and pointed it up the staircase. "You kehn 'elp by leavin'." He took off his hat, placed it on an adjacent nightstand, pulled a chef's hat out of his chest pouches, and put it on over his head. "Don't need some goody goody pony know-ih-tall tellin' me my bizniss."

Octavia felt her frown reach its limits. She scurried about and searched the shelf above her head, found what she had barely made out when she'd looked there last, and presented it to Cheers before she'd even realized what horrible idea she'd just gone through with.

"I'll... I'll leaf, all right!"

The room was silent.

Even the cup of bay-leaf she was holding in her hoof looked to be unimpressed. Just like high school.

Stupid Godsdamn idiot.

This was like that time she'd let out a long one during practice, and everypony just looked at her. Mind, she'd eaten a McDuckle's breakfast burrito earlier in the day because she didn't feel like making toast, but the consequences of menial activities weren't things she liked reaping. Actually, if she could, she'd just like to never reap anything in her life as long as she barely occupied it. A life without consequences may have been a wrong one to consider, with a slippery slope she couldn't quite angle herself from tumbling down at the end, but it was still a thought. A nice one, actually.

"Wuz thaht an uh-tempt at a joke?"

Octavia rushed back to reality in a blur, ending her sudden, unexpected ride with a tickle in her throat that she violently coughed at.

"Bah!" Cheers hacked, stomping over to her and snatching the bay-leaf from her hooves. "Touchin' my shhhit wit' yer sick pony hooves... aisle bet you touched my pots an' pans, didn't ya, ya little bugga?"

Octavia fixed a scowl on her face. All right. Canterlot Time.

"Just thought I'd assist you in your endeavours, love. Didn't want you to chip a talon breaking your poor old back for hungry folk."

Cheers opened his beak, shut his eyes, and shouted a very, very loud, "HAW!" to the ceiling, before pulling a box of matches out of one of his coat pockets and pointing at her with the unoccupied claw. "Hungry my ahss. These Sputnik damned birds would eat the bahk off a pine tree." He took out a single match, brought it up to his beak, struck it, and lit the stove with one swift motion. Fanning the flames away, "I'm the only one on this ship that knows what gluten is. Gluten. Just goes t' show ya what kinda pirates this lot are."

Gluten was... like, healthy, right? But if it was healthy, then why were there gluten-free sections of the bread aisle in Ponyville? Was it just another green-freak thing, like vegetable burgers and sweet potato fries? Ponies could digest meat; some didn't think it ethical, some defended the nutritional value. It was a huge controversy these days, but Octavia was on the side of the omnivores. Let them eat meat!

CHSHHH!

Octavia shook her head, mane whipping around.

Cheers looked at her out of the corners of his eyes, regarded her for a second of his apparently busy-body time, and adjusted his chef's hat.

He sighed. "If yoh so adam-it 'bout stayin', you c'n stay right theh in th' cohnuh and play wit' yohself."

If she were anywhere else, Octavia would have covered her mouth with a hoof and gasped. Instead, she was on a pirate ship with pirates and swashbuckling and flintlocks and an English griffon and her friends. She snickered.

"A light bit crude, are we?"

Cheers responded quickly, like he'd anticipated her question somehow or some way, "Moh than thaht, love."

Octavia found no choice presented to her. If she was to actually get a chance at helping him to thereby prove herself a good cook to... whoever she was proving such a thing to, she would have to obey him and do what he said... somewhat. She wasn't too... keen on the last part of that sentence. If– nope! She was going to stop herself there. This wasn't really something to think about or even think about thinking about. The double think. The Elusive Double Think! We've been trying to catch him for years!

The more she said the word "think", the more it sounded like some kind of slur to her oh that's why. It was devastatingly close to... yeah. Okay. She was going to stop saying think. Saying– no. Not saying. Thinking. Think think thinking in her own little head, her own little brain with emphasis on the little and obscure.

SSSSSS.

Ooh.

She sat up a tad and looked over at the frying pan lit up underneath Cheers' eyesight. He must've already had an idea set in his head about what he'd be making for the morning break. With a wooden spoon in a claw and a little cup of red spices in the other, he worked his pretty obvious talent and grumbled something to himself when he noticed her trying to take a peek. Like a child trying to keep his adjacents from reading the book he was currently nose-deep in, he growled and groveled and scooted it a bit further from her sights over to his left. Octavia's response was very simple and very befitting for a pony of her stature.

"Hey–"

"Sit. Or leave."

"I'm not a dog–"

"Walk on all fours like one."

"So do you!"

...

There was a pregnant pause.

Cheers must have realized himself, because he sucked in a really long breath and blew it back out before silently, now more vigorously she noted, returning to his activity. Placing the spoon next to the pan and resting its head on the lip, he stepped away from the pan and began sorting through the drawers in a bent-over position looking more like he'd misplaced a bit in the floorboards at their soles. Neglected like that baby in Trainspying, the pan sizzled and sputtered with the intensity of Octavia herself, and so her attention drew to it like moths to an electronic, state-of-the-art bug-zapper. How unethical.

"Uh..."

"Shut it, mate. Lookin' fer me knives."

Octavia rose to her hooves and looked inside the pan. The small squares sitting inside the oiled, spiced, greasy bowl were bouncing and seizing along the top of its surface like literally anything left on Vinyl's turntable contraption thing whatever-the-hell-it-was-called. She bit on her lip and looked at Cheers. He shook his head, signifying his rising back up to face his possibly burning food, only to stop and shake his head again.

"Wat in th'– God's sake Gary, stop leavin' yer bloody hook in me damned drowuhs..."

No more of this! She was going to make sure something in the kitchen didn't burn and smolder. Not this time. Almost jumping a foot in the air to gallop over to the stovetop, she rose up on her hindlegs, grabbed hold of the frying pan, and shook the whole thing to equalize the crispiness in its products.

What was this? Tofu?

"Oi!"

Octavia peeled her ears back and looked to her immediate left.

"Wat the 'ell did I say 'bout yoh cohnuh?"

Octavia glared. "Oh, get off it, you prat. You've been whining and moping about a sous-chef to Andy forever, and now you've got one. Would you like her to leave or not? I doubt anyone else would take up the mantle of talking to the likes of you."

The room was quiet again.

Just the room, again. Only the room.

Shut up shut up shut up oh Gods why did she say that.

Cheers smirked.

"Food's buh-nin'. Move ih tovuh, and get me th' oats from th' cuh-bird."

Octavia relinquished her grasp on the pan's handle and settled back down onto the floor. She... hadn't expected this. If anything, she was expecting claws to dig into her sides, carry her up the stairs, and chuck her onto the deck to wake everyone else up and worsen things for everybody involved. "What? Change of heart?"

Cheers shook his head. "Change o' mindset, mate. Ya may be rubbish, but ya won't screw up with me directin' ya. T' hell wit' it. Weeyuh only makin' breakfast anyhow. Doubt you could screw up tofu and toast."

Octavia cocked an eyebrow.

"No eggs?"

The griffon shot her a quiet glare.

She sheepishly grinned. "Right. That makes sense." He narrowed his eyes at her, then turned away, looked at her again like she'd tried attacking him from behind, then grumbled an obscenity that sounded an awful lot like disappointment. She knew what those words sounded like without actually hearing them in their entirety. She had a mirror, and it had gotten many an earful in her time.

Nevertheless, she turned around to look for the cupboard, found it, and spoke a little softer, "Right. No eggs."

Cheers apparently didn't hear her, too caught up in the doings he was doing while the winds battered the ship only paces from his being.

Author's Note:

I really like this chapter...

Comments

[the other sans]

Now, first off... Octavia. How could you not know about GLUTEN when you supposedly BAKE BY YOURSELF. It's utter madness! You make cakes and cookies for God's sake! Not knowing about Gluten when baking is practically the same as using corn starch as a cake flour substitute! It's utter madness! General cooking on the other hand is fine if you don't know as much because you only focused on one aspect of the kitchen. That doesn't use the other side as often. Aside from say maybe candies. But that's a whole nother beast altogether.

I'd almost say Gary was hooked on legging it to the kitchen just about every time but it's not like we get the point of him going in there so often. It's gonna take some time but Octavia is gonna be a well oiled cooking machine by the time Cheers is done wit' er. Not sure if Octavia likes his doggone quips though. Figured going to the box freezer was a good ice breaker to start but too bad she didn't get there in time before the cheery one got in.

[re- Yamsmos]

8478654
I think the general consensus is that Octavia never knows what she's doing.

[the other sans]

8478668
It's a wonder her house didn't burn down yet. Me think her house mate is like her life buoy at this point. Though now that she's out at sea with the birds...

[Ice Star]

This story has really come into its own in these later chapters; it's a shame there's not much left to go through.