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Sergio treated cooking like a scientific experiment.
Recipes scared him. They usually said something like “one teaspoon”, but all teaspoons in his old house were different, all stolen from restaurants or his family friend's houses, once a thief, forever a thief, he could never deny himself a little thrill of the action. All regular spoons were different too, he once measured them only to find out all of them contained a different amount of water, what can be said of any other substance.
There was, however, one tiny remark that made teaspoon-measured amounts a thousand times worse.
A heaped teaspoon. His sworn enemy.
A full teaspoon with a plain surface at the top, like it naturally was with liquid? That he could get behind. But heaped teaspoons? Absolutely no.
A little hill above the edges of the spoon, sounds easy, but how little exactly? Do they mean thirty degrees slide or should it be done along the flowability line of solids?
Another measure instrument he hated were gasses. Glasses tend to have different volumes by design. Recipes never specify which one he’s supposed to use.
And eggs, what about eggs?! Every grocery store had at least three categories of eggs. Three visibly different categories. Recipes never specified which one he should use either, not to mention their colour! What about colour? This is an important characteristic no one pays attention to. It’s different for a reason, it has to affect the dish somehow, right? Right?
Still, without recipes he is a blind kitten in the kitchen.
In his childhood he used to think that cooking was something akin to magic, a gift that only women were graced with. Later, stuck in the hospitals he never really thought where the food came from. It was part of a routine, as unpleasant as any other aspect of his treatment was.
Later, when Andrés started succeeding with his heists and changed his name, food became a part of his pretentious persona. Andrés’ girlfriends came and went, some of them cooked better, some were worse. Andés never really cared about gender stereotypes around cooking, all the greatest chiefs were men anyway, and soon he became a decent cook himself, although his primal motivation was to impress his women with something exotic.
Then, Andrés married. His first marriage lasted for less than a year, but Sergio couldn’t know that when his brother broke the news to him: from now on, you live alone, hermanito.
Turns out, living alone meant he had to cook for himself too. He often forgot to eat, too immersed into a book or heist planning, but every time came a moment where his body reminded him of its needs for fuel.
That’s how Sergio learned to cook. It took a lot of mental strength, breathing exercises and a few nervous breakdowns upon failed meals to come up with a strategy. With a lot of research, attempts to figure out the optimal ways. What would be healthy, aligning with his workout routine, less time and energy-consuming. He assigned a special day when he took his time with meal-prepping and by the time Andrés finalized his first divorce and moved back in with Sergio he had another reason to make fun of his little brother.
Sergio found himself not caring. Food was just a necessity. And if he had to spend precious time on it to stay in a clear mind, so be it.
In Toledo they took turns in cooking the same way they did with every other house chore. Among all of them, Sergio preferred driving into the village to get groceries and other much needed supplies; but he couldn't deny the pleasure of getting out the house to the others, especially those who weren't wanted by the police. Moscow was a great cook, as well as Nairobi. Both Tokyo and Rio couldn't make a sandwich properly; Denver was useful only with his father's guidance and Helsinki and Oslo could cook, but the meals they made had unexplainable bleakness as everything else in eastern europe. Despite all that, Sergio couldn't avoid the kitchen altogether, so he settled on preparing breakfasts. First, he was the first one to wake up anyway. Second, breakfasts were way easy to make and demanded less variety than any other meal. Sergio occasionally helped with other meals too, but only when it was Berlin’s turn. It was rather a way to spend time with his brother when they weren't obligated to pretend to not know each other than for the pleasure of cooking.
When he came to Palawan his well-being was the last thing he cared about. Grief consumed him. We tried to get him to that tunnel, Nairobi told him, we could easily make it during the time we spent arguing. He chose to stay there. He wanted to go on his terms, with a bang, like a martyr. Slowly fading away doesn’t exactly suit his personality. Nairobi was right, he had to accept it, but acceptance didn’t take his grief away. He thought he had at least half of the year with Andrés left. He thought they would celebrate the success of the plan together, and perhaps, perhaps they would execute the other plan of Andrés too. They could figure it out together, maybe even with Martin, despite Sergio being apprehensive of Martin’s motivations and thought the relationship between Martin and Andrés wasn’t healthy. But now, all he was left to was going through the plans of the Bank of Spain heist again and again, talking with Andrés in his head and sometimes out loud. Do you like it, do you think it would work? I wish you were here, you’d figure it out so much faster than me.
During times like this he forgot about his physical needs. Sometimes, he thought, he deserved to feel sick, the reflection of his mental pain on his body. He didn’t manage to keep everyone alive, he betrayed the plan. In the end, he was no better than his brother.
He wished he had the chance to say it to him, to apologize. You were right, all that time, I knew nothing about love.
All the time he wasn’t working on the Bank of Spain heist plan, the other type of grief consumed him. A grief for something that could’ve been. A grief for love he never anticipated, but now, when it happened to him, to both of them, he doubted he could ever let go of.
He spent his afternoons sitting in the bar he left Raquel coordinates to, sometimes reading, sometimes engaging in conversations with the bartender. The bar became the place he ate the majority of his meals, he was stuck there anyway. Now, when he felt like he had all the money in the world, he could let himself eat at the restaurant every day. Support for the local small business. Liquidity injection.
The exact words he said to Raquel.
(He always wondered what exactly possessed Raquel to help him. Did he convince her with his arguments, was it desperation, the only way out she saw at that moment or was it her feelings for him, a hope that at least one of them could escape? I wish I had a chance to ask you.)
When the seven months mark passed, Raquel was still not here, something clicked. Time he could have had with Andrés came to an end. He had to pull himself together, if not for himself, then for the tiny chance of Raquel finally coming to join him. It was hard to hold onto hope, but love is a stubborn thing.
He trimmed his beard, cut his hair to the length it was before the heist. He returned to his workout routine with adjustments for his new way of living, without a gym on the nearby street. And with the workout routine came the question of the food, not to mention that he was quite tired of the modest menu of the bar and the pre-prepared frozen meals from the nearest store. That was the day he walked into his favorite bookstore that sold books in every language possible and walked out with six books about local cuisine.
It was a challenge once again, but he kept telling himself you printed one billion euros and got out alive, you can do it.
Cooking became a way to spend some time immersed in the process of learning a new skill, god knows he missed this. During this time he didn’t think of his dead brother or the lack of Raquel in his life, although sometimes he daydreamed, if she ever comes, he’ll cook for her just like he did now. And maybe, maybe she’d decide to stay. It wasn’t about making an impression, wasn’t about pride, rather a silent way to say you won’t have to carry everything on your own shoulders anymore. I’ll be right next to you, in love, passion and most mundane things, just let me.
Against all odds, the day came. A little more than a year since the heist, when he lost all the hope, she approached the bartender, ridiculously copying their first meeting, not the one over the phone, but in person, eighteen hours into the heist, in the Hanoi when all he could think of was how beautiful she was in real life, the type of a beauty not a single photograph could convey.
He thought she would say something, he wondered if she was still angry - she had all the right to be. But she, both of them really, it always was both of them, couldn’t stop smiling through tears, too scared to close the distance…
And then she was all over him, hands around his neck and kissing him. It took him few seconds to catch up on reality, because it was Raquel, his Raquel and she was kissing him like the earth would shudder if she stopped for a moment.
I couldn’t let it go too, she whispered when they parted, I’m sorry it took me so long.
I waited for you every single day, was his response.
Raquel was sleeping now, but he couldn’t, too scared that she’d disappear like a twisted dream that turns out to be a nightmare when he’d wake up. So he has to stay awake, to hold her close, to feel her breath and her heartbeat, to bury his face in her hair, to breathe her in.
A wicked voice in his head kept whispering to him that he has no right to hold her like this. He hadn't had a chance to confess his sins yet, both their minds clouded with desire as soon as they reached his house, a desire that never really faded since the last kiss they shared in his hangar. The only kiss that had no pretense, no lies, just them – Sergio Marquina, the man who managed to print a billion euros, and Raquel Murillio, a police inspector who was supposed to catch him, now desperate to have his trust, to ensure him they're on one side now, because their lives and their hearts became to intertwined in a span of three days and painted the world in every colour except black and white.
Something lurked inside his stomach. A hunger, not for the woman in his arms, although that one too, but the more primitive one. He hasn't eaten since breakfast and Raquel must've came searching for him straight from the airport, so it's no surprise.
What should he make for her? Something Spanish to remind her of home? Something of her favorites? But he knew nothing about her food preferences, the only meal they shared was a dinner at her house with Marivi’s soup, a dinner he preferred not to think about.
He untangles himself from her, careful not to wake her up. (Because if she wakes up, he doubts they'll get a chance to at least try to cook something for at least an hour.)
The short route to the kitchen is the hardest walk in his life and he had to get inside the truck and ride away, leaving his brother to either death or lifelong imprisonment.
First things first, music. Cicadas and the ocean are fine, but they are for later, they are for sitting on the beach with glasses of white wine, sliced mangoes and staring into the darkness, moon and stars. Now, he needs something else. He absently pulls out a random record – Beethoven’s sixth symphony, just what he needs.
Then, he pulled out his culinary books. He wasn't sure what he was searching for. Something he had an experience with, something impressive enough but also something he'll be able to make without screwing it up.
Sergio treats cooking like a scientific experiment. Something that does not tolerate mistakes. It was terrifying enough when he cooked for himself alone, but if he always could start again. Time didn't matter, he had all the time in the world, all the deadlines he had were installed by himself and could be moved with the decent amount of cursing and self-hatred.
Now, he had no right for mistake, because Raquel was sleeping in his, no, theirs, bedroom and she can wake up any moment now and he has to make it right for her. Not just right, it has to be the best dinner of her life, it has to be better than any meal her past partners had made for her.
Because he knows, Raquel trusted him enough to come, but she's not entirely sure on staying.
Will he be able to make up for all the pain he caused to her? He knows, it'll take time, but will she let him?
He daydreamed of this day for a year, but he still can't believe she is really here and suddenly he needs to go back to the bedroom and take her in his arms again.
He absently shakes his head. He will be able to do it later. Raquel is here. Raquel believes in him, in them, enough to come here, to kiss him, to make love to him, and she felt safe enough to fall asleep in his arms.
After everything he had done, he doesn't deserve that kind of trust. It feels heavy on his shoulders, the most precious weight he ever held, a burden he would happily carry for the rest of his life.
Only if she lets him.
He settles on making an adobo chicken with rice. It's easy enough and he made it countless times before, the only hard thing is not to burn it, which means no multitasking.
He carefully measures vinegar and soy sauce, cuts garlic and adds one half of a teaspoon of freshly cracked black peppercorns, puts it all in the pan and waits until it boils. The proper way is to let chicken legs marinate for a couple of hours, but he doesn't have that time and ge learned this quick way recently.
Seriously though, how the hell teaspoons became a worldwide measuring instrument? Traditions around tea consumption varied widely around the globe, from japaneese tra ceremonies to british late-afternoon light meal centered around tea and turkish gest of hospitality. Brits were the one who decided that putting sugar in the black tea was a good idea, along with a milk, for some reason, whoever invented that should be burned in hell if hell exists, and they spread their tradition to their colonies, even if they had their own traditions around tea consumption. Yes, colonialism, that makes sense. But still, teaspoons…
When the chicken looks cooked enough, Sergio puts it aside to drain (that's the hard part, why recipes sometimes don't bother with making time stamps and settling on “on eye” measurements? What about blind people?
He is too immersed in the process to notice Raquel waking up and making her way to the kitchen until she learns against his back and wraps her arms around him. The gesture is so domestic his heart is about to melt. Or explode. Or both, at the same time, and he doesn't bother pondering whether it's physically possible.
“Good evening,” he whispers.
Raquel leaves a kiss on his shoulder, it's soft but it burns and suddenly he hates the cotton of his shirt, and lets go of him.
“What time is it?”
“I don't know,” he answers honestly. Time doesn't matter, not when she's here. “Sun set about half an hour ago. It should be around eight.”
“Oh,” Raquel looks a little disappointed. “I’m sorry I slept so long.”
“It's alright. You had a long day. And night. Three flights is a lot.”
Raquel seems relieved at his understanding. She shouldn't have been nervous about it in the first place. But then, he's terrified of making a wrong move around her, but that's him. He made so many mistakes already. Raquel made none. She was right to threaten him with her gun, to chain him up, to interrogate him and not believe him, to slap him right when he confessed his love for her, to threaten him with death. He was glad she didn't, though. Death would be an easy way out and he deserved to suffer.
Could it be possible that Raquel felt guilty for that? She shouldn't. He's not sure he will ever confess this, but he fell in love a little more each time she pointed her gun at him.
Or was she walking on the eggshells around him, afraid to scare away this haze of a dream they found themselves in? She doesn't have to be, he loves her just as she is, completely, no coming back, he's completely hers. He's about to say it, but decides against it. What if it's too much?
The sauce is still dripping from the chicken, the recipe forgot to mention the time of this part too and Sergio wonders if he's allowed to speed up the process. He meant to wake Raquel up to a prepared dinner, full served, wine, candles and mangoes he bought yesterday on his way home alone from the bar, not knowing that in less than a day he would make the same way with Raquel’s hand in his.
“That's a lot of garlic,” Raquel notices as she looks over the pot with the vinegar. Sergio uses this time to clean the pan.
“It… I put exactly as it was said in the recipe.” He explains carefully. Suddenly he's scared again, not of failing the meal, but of making a wrong choice when he decided to go with something local. All Asian cuisines use a lot of spices to make up for the poor variety of ingredients.
He pours olive oil onto the pan and puts chicken back on it. He's not sure why his body is suddenly tense, all his attention back on the meal he's trying to make. Raquel stands silent beside him while he fries the chicken, but she's wearing his shirt, probably no underwear and the thought of it is distracting enough. He can feel her gaze wander all over him. He desperately tries to ignore it.
When the chicken is golden brown he pours the vinegar and soy sauce back into the pan and lowers the heat. It’ll take time for it to absorb all the liquid, but he hopes it'll be worth the wait.
The rice is ready, thankfully. He can take a breath and wait.
He takes wine out of the fridge, a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand. and pours two glasses for them.
“I’m sorry it's taking so long,” he says. “I hoped you’d sleep until I’m ready here.”
It's her turn to smile and reassure him that it's alright, it means so much. She confesses that she quite enjoys seeing him in the kitchen, even the fact that he thought about it. Did none of her exes ever cook for her after all? Why is she so surprised at such a simple action? Not simple, not for him, but such mundane, the implications of her excitement terrifies him. He immediately vows to himself to become more confident around the kitchen, just so he could see this light in her eyes, because, god, her eyes can light up the whole room, no, whole island and they burn only for him and he struggles to believe it once again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers once again and he's not sure what he's apologizing for – the wait, imperfections or all his wrongdoings back in Madrid.
Raquel’s expression is more serious now, concerned even, but that light behind her eyes is still there. She puts her glass aside, and so does he. She makes a step closer and when he doesn't move, she’s in his personal space, but still too far for his liking. She brings her hands to cup his cheeks and he can't suppress a sob.
Is he crying? Why is he crying? He feels tears gathered in his eyes and it's not cooking, today's meal doesn't involve any onions.
“It's not about dinner, isn't it?”
Raquel, his sweet, smart Raquel, of course she would always see through him.
“I want it to be perfect for you, Raquel. I’ve wronged you so many times, but I want you to stay, I want you to trust me enough to bring your family here, I meant it then, and I mean it now.” He draws in a sharp breath. “I love you, Raquel. So forgive me for trying too hard to make it perfect for you.”
She smiles at him, her big owl eyes glowing. She smiles as if she struggles to believe it's real, they are really here, finally, finally…
“I love you too, even if sometimes I don’t understand what it means.”
“Let me show you. Please, let me, Raquel.”
The kiss is inevitable.
Raquel strengthens up on her tiptoes and brings their lips together in a tender kiss. It's nothing like the kisses they shared earlier. It's a permission. It's a promise.
A promise of a new beginning, time, second chances, trust and forgiveness, love, so deep that it's overwhelming…
Beethoven’s symphony comes to an end, leaving them with cicadas and gentle ocean waves, but it's alright. It's perfect as it is, just because they have each other.
He’ll make her silog for breakfast, even though it's a little too heavy for his own taste and calamansi lemonade they would drink throughout the afternoon heat, he’ll take her to the market and introduce her to every fruit he never heard of before moving here, maybe with exception for durian, he wants her to stay, after all. And he will take her to his favorite restaurant for dinner, a waiter who withstand Sergio’s lonely dinners throughout the year and he would finally smile at him, at them, he doesn't know a thing about who they are and why they had to stay apart for so long, but the pity abd sadness on his eyes is gone and he is smiling every time he approaches their table and Sergio smiles back, a hint of pride and pure happiness he's not able to hold back, because Raquel, his Raquel is here and she wants nothing more than to stay with him.