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Had someone told Phillip ten years ago that he'd wind up living in America as a happy househusband, he would not have believed them. It was a matter of perfect circumstance, in his opinion. A bleeding-heart American private investigator living in squalor because he is far too discerning about the types of cases he takes– meets an Englishman with a fresh inheritance looking for a new beginning. Rather romantic, actually.
Now he gets to spend his days experimenting with recipes and handicrafts and hobbies he never would have had the chance to explore while drenched in the expectations of British high society. All the while his darling Benoit scouts for poor souls to take under his wing for a day. Or a week. Or a month. Months.
Phillip would be lying if he said it didn't get lonely in their flat. He plays music, he turns on the television, he even has a few favorite podcasts saved on Spotify. Nothing fills the void quite like Benoit's voice. So he bakes. For their neighbors, for the doorman. He's been known to send mailmen home with a loaf of sourdough bread or a basket of blackberry scones. When he goes out to shop for ingredients, he always fills his car with bags of pastries to hand out to anyone he sees who looks like they could use a homemade treat. It gives him the connection to humanity he misses while his husband is off solving a murder halfway across the country.
Ever since Benoit brought home that iPad from the billionaire island he and dear Helen investigated, they FaceTime almost every night.
Helen, bless her, so patiently taught the both of them how to more efficiently use the device. She returned home to Alabama with a basket of beignets and enough cupcakes for her students.
The calls help both of them. Sometimes, all Benoit needs to figure out some piece of the puzzle he's working through is to talk it out, and Phillip loves the way his whole face lights up when it finally clicks. Those moments are always followed by a rushed, “Love you, miss you, be home mighty soon, my dear,” and a blown kiss before the call abruptly ends.
For Phillip, he gets to pretend that Benoit is laying beside him, his southern drawl lulling him to sleep.
“Oh, I'm terribly sorry, this must all be so borin' to you,” Benoit had said once, when Phillip was unable to suppress a yawn.
“No, no, not at all,” Phillip had tried not to sound as near to sleep as he was, but gave up by the second sentence, “I love hearing about your day. It simply cannot be helped that your luxurious voice puts me right to sleep.”
Benoit had blinked at him through the screen, a little disbelieving, but then a smile flitted across his face, and he crooned, “Well, in that case, lemme tell you what this block-headed coroner would have the townsfolk believe….”
His latest escapade has him in Nowhere, Upstate New York– population all of two dozen– so in actuality, he isn't that far away. And the case of the chronically confessional “killer” priest has wrapped up, so Benoit is on his way home. Which is a good thing. An excellent thing, even. Phillip is thrilled!
So why has every soufflé he's tried to make collapsed?
Sure, his baking gets thrown off by his emotions here and there. Flour can sense fear, after all. But disasters like these only tend to happen when Phillip is stressed, not relieved. He's done everything right, followed his recipe to the letter. When that didn't work, he tried tweaking things here and there. And now, a half hour before Benoit is due back, he has six sunken soufflés lined on the counter and a seventh in the oven, completely baffled as to what he's doing wrong.
He's still ruminating on it when the door to their flat swings open and Benoit's tell-tale vocalizations drift through the threshold. Mumbles and grumbles and hums as he wrangles his luggage inside, always making so much more noise than necessary. A smile blossoms on Phillip's face and he calls out from the kitchen, “Welcome home, darling! How was your trip?”
“Eugh, you know I despise the interstate,” Benoit calls back, disgust curling his every word, “And these bozos think they own the goddamn thing just because it's ‘Easter weekend’.”
“Mm, so I take it traffic was bad?”
“Honey, it was deplorable. I should'a stayed for Mass with the Padre. That would'a been less insufferable,” Benoit strides into the kitchen on a cloud of energy, shrugging off his blazer as he continues, “Did I tell you he tried to confess to two murders he undoubtedly did not commit? Several times! The kid has enough guilt in ‘im to make the damn devil cry.”
Phillip hums a laugh and turns from the counter to offer the back-up-brownies he made between the third and fourth failed soufflé, but Benoit is on a collision course with the assortment of ramekins and he shows no sign of stopping. He swipes one from the counter top and pulls open the silverware drawer to retrieve a spoon, bumping it closed with his hip. On his way to the table, he rises up and steals a quick, yet needy kiss that steals any warning from Phillip's tongue.
All he can do is watch in horror as his husband settles at their kitchen table with the flattened dish. Benoit starts to jab at it with the spoon, but he aborts the motion to gesticulate with it instead.
“It was like babysittin’ a compulsive liar….except the liar thinks he's bein’ compulsively honest, it– it was exhausting, but, y'know what,” Benoit's eyes sparkle like diamonds when he points the spoon at him, “I think the boy's gonna do those people some good. I just got this feelin’ about him. He's not just wearin’ that dogcollar, he's….oh, I don't know.”
A half-shrug, and he finally scoops a spoonful of mushy chocolate soufflé. Phillip sucks in a sharp breath, prepared for the worst. But then Benoit hums low and pleased and relaxes for the first time since he arrived home.
“My god, Phillip, why this is simply divine,” he praises between bites, “What is it? Mousse?”
Oddly nervous, Phillip dusts his hands on his apron and mutters, “Ah, soufflé, actually. Well, at least that's what it's meant to be, but I haven't been able to get them to turn out right today.”
“Soufflé, mousse, whatever it is….,” Benoit beckons him over and pulls him in close by his hand. He trails up and gives Phillip's upper arm a squeeze, “It is undeniably magnificent.”
“I'm….I'm pleased you think so,” Phillip smiles softly at him, feeling his face flush hot like he's a teenager talking to his crush.
“I do– c'mere,” his husband tugs him down into a slower, more delicate kiss. Phillip tastes the chocolate mousse-soufflé on Benoit's lips, turning the kiss sugary sweet, and the lingering, rich scent of his cuban cigars envelopes him like a hug. “I do,” Benoit repeats, quieter, “I really do.”
Phillip's chest swells with warmth and he leans into the palm resting on the side of his face, “Thank you, darling.”
Just then, the vintage kitchen timer rings jovially, and Phillip must reluctantly pull away to remove the final attempt at a soufflé from the oven. At least Benoit likes them. He'd have hated for them to go to waste. Phillip puts on his oven mitts and opens the door to put an end to this disastrous day of baking.
Only, when he removes the ramekin….the soufflé is perfect. It rises precisely four centimeters above the white ceramic rim, gently wiggling with his movements. In a sort of shock, Phillip dusts the soufflé with powdered sugar and sets it at the table across from Benoit, half-listening to his recount as he fishes a spoon from the drawer. Phillip takes off his tie-dyed apron and hangs it on the back of the chair he settles in. He dips into the airy soufflé, pleased with the slight give, and scoops out a small portion. The moment the soufflé melts onto his tongue, his nerves vanish completely. He sighs a soft laugh, full of contentment for the first time since Benoit left for Chimney Rock.
If Benoit notices the change– which Phillip knows he must– he doesn't mention it. He's deep in a detailed explanation of how the “Road to Damascus” parable ties into the solution of this case. It's brilliantly told, as always, and Phillip rests his chin in his palm to watch his husband's performance. His gaze is full of love and devotion, and his belly is filling with a proper chocolate soufflé.
Hm. Now there's a theory. Benoit Blanc has always been Phillip’s favorite play. Maybe all he needed was the lyrical drawl of his husband's voice. The more he eats and listens, the more sure he becomes.
Benoit was the missing ingredient all along.