Chapter 24 Pizza, Games, And Pack Chaos
Pizza, Games, And Pack Chaos
~ROSEMARIE~
"Ihave everything under control."
Famous last words. The kind of words that belong on tombstones and cautionary tales. The kind of words that precede absolute chaos.
Julian stands at Tank's stove with the confidence of a man who has never actually used a stove in his life—which, to be fair, he probably hasn't.
He's wearing one of Tank's aprons—plain black, far too large on his leaner frame, the ties wrapped twice around his waist—and wielding a spatula like it's a weapon he doesn't quite know how to operate.
The kitchen smells like expensive olive oil, fresh herbs that look suspiciously like they came from a store rather than any actual cooking preparation, and the faint undertone of impending disaster.
This is going to end badly. I can feel it in my bones. The universe is sending me signals and all of them say "evacuate the premises immediately."
Tank's kitchen is warm and homey—nothing like Julian's sterile penthouse setup.
The counters are worn wood, the cabinets are painted a cheerful sage green, and there are hand-painted mugs on hooks that Tank probably bought at a local craft fair.
Sasha's water bowl sits by the back door, and the whole space smells faintly of cedar and woodsmoke even before Julian started. .. whatever this is.
"Are you sure you don't want help?" I offer from my spot at the kitchen island, where I've been relegated to "observer" status after Julian insisted—insisted loudly and repeatedly—that he could handle dinner himself.
This was supposed to be a non-date group night to build pack dynamics, and Julian decided the best way to contribute was to cook.
Tank is sprawled on the living room couch with Sasha draped across his lap, pretending to watch TV but actually watching Julian with barely concealed amusement.
Elias is setting up board games on the coffee table, humming something off-key.
"I don't need help," Julian snaps, adjusting the heat on the burner with aggressive precision. "I've watched enough cooking videos. This is simply a matter of following precise instructions. I follow instructions professionally. This should be no different."
“Julian,” Tank says without looking up from whatever nature documentary he's pretending to watch, "you've never cooked anything more complicated than instant ramen. And you somehow made the ramen crunchy."
"That's not true. I made toast last week."
"You burned the toast last week," Elias corrects cheerfully, looking up from the Monopoly board. "I saw the evidence in the trash can. It was basically charcoal. I thought you were trying to make fire starters."
Julian's jaw tightens visibly. "The toaster was defective."
Sure it was. Just like this stove is probably about to be "defective" in approximately three minutes. I should probably locate the fire extinguisher now, as a precaution.
The kitchen fills with the sizzle of something hitting hot oil—too hot, judging by the aggressive spitting sounds—and Julian leans back to avoid getting splattered.
He's attempting some kind of pan-seared chicken situation, though the chicken in question looks more like it's being assaulted than cooked.
"Is it supposed to smoke like that?" I ask, watching gray wisps curl up from the pan.
"It's fine," Julian insists. "Smoke is normal. It means it's cooking."
"Does it, though?" Tank muses from the couch.
The smoke increases. The chicken makes a sound that can only be described as a death rattle. Julian adjusts the heat again—up instead of down, because apparently he's committed to this particular path of destruction.
And then the pan catches fire.
Not a small fire, either. A legitimate, flames-reaching-toward-the-ceiling, smoke-detector-screaming kind of fire. The kitchen goes from "slightly concerning" to "definitely an emergency" in approximately two seconds.
"FUCK!" Julian jumps back, still holding the spatula like it's going to protect him from the inferno he's created.
Elias is already moving, abandoning the board games with the practiced efficiency of someone who deals with fires professionally.
He grabs the fire extinguisher from under the sink—because apparently Tank's house comes equipped for exactly this kind of situation—and has the flames doused within seconds.
White foam covers the stovetop, the pan, and a significant portion of Julian's apron.
The smoke detector continues to scream.
Sasha howls in response, apparently deciding this is a sing-along moment.
Tank sighs and goes to open windows.
Julian stands frozen amid the chaos, foam dripping from his designer watch, staring at the ruins of his cooking attempt with an expression of utter betrayal.
Well. That escalated quickly.
I'm still processing the absurdity of it all when sirens sound in the distance. At first I think I'm imagining it, but no—they're getting closer. Much closer.
"Did someone call...?" I start.
"Automatic alarm system," Tank explains, waving a hand to clear smoke from his face. "Connects directly to the fire department when the detector goes off for more than thirty seconds."
Elias groans. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
A fire truck pulls up outside—lights flashing, siren wailing—and within moments, three firefighters are piling through Tank's front door in full gear, ready to battle an inferno.
What they find instead is Julian covered in fire extinguisher foam, a destroyed pan, and their Fire Chief standing in the middle of the chaos wearing a t-shirt that says "World's Okayest Firefighter."
"Chief?" One of them—a younger guy with freckles—looks between Elias and the smoking kitchen. "Everything okay here?"
"False alarm, Martinez," Elias says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Culinary incident."
"Culinary incident," another firefighter repeats, clearly delighted. "Is that what we're calling it?" He spots Julian and his foam-covered apron. "Sir, did you try to cook?"
Julian's glare could melt steel. "I had everything under control."
"The fire extinguisher suggests otherwise," the third firefighter observes, trying and failing to hide his grin.
Tank leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "In his defense, he did have everything to perfection. Except the damn oven degrees. He had it in Fahrenheit when he thought it was Celsius. Or whatever measurement system he was using."
"I was using the correct measurement—"
"You had the burner on maximum heat for twenty minutes," I point out gently. "The recipe probably didn't call for that."
Julian opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. His ears are red. His dignity is in shambles. The firefighters are barely containing their laughter.
"We'll just... do a quick check and head out," Martinez says, clearly trying to be professional despite the absurdity. "Standard protocol."
They do a cursory inspection of the kitchen, confirm there's no actual danger, and prepare to leave. But not before one of them claps Elias on the shoulder and says, "Hey Chief, maybe stick to ordering takeout next time your pack wants dinner."
"I'm going to remember this on your next performance review, Thompson," Elias warns, but there's no heat in it.
We thank them as they leave, the sound of their laughter echoing even as the truck pulls away. Julian is still standing in the middle of the kitchen like a statue of wounded pride, foam dripping slowly from his designer watch onto Tank's hardwood floor.
Poor Julian. He really did try. Points for effort, if not execution. Maybe next time we'll stick to things that don't involve open flames or heat sources of any kind.
"Okay," I say, breaking the awkward silence that's settled over the kitchen like a blanket. "Why don't we do a pizza night instead?"
The relief in the room is palpable—I can practically hear the collective exhale.
Tank immediately pulls out his phone to find a delivery menu, already scrolling through options.
Elias starts cleaning up the fire extinguisher foam with practiced efficiency, wielding a mop like he's done this before.
Julian—stubborn, stubborn, impossible Julian—huffs and mutters something about how pizza was "always the backup plan" and "perfectly acceptable for a casual evening" before retreating to the bathroom to wash the foam off his hands and dignity.
The next hour is surprisingly peaceful. Pizza arrives—four different varieties, because apparently three Alphas can't agree on toppings and need backup options for their backup options.
Pepperoni for Tank, because he's a traditionalist. Something with artichokes and sun-dried tomatoes for Julian, because he has to be difficult.
Hawaiian for Elias, which sparks a heated debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
And a simple cheese for me, because sometimes simple is perfect.
We settle into Tank's living room with paper plates and napkins, sprawled across furniture and floor cushions.
The earlier chaos fades into a comfortable warmth, helped along by the Valentine's Day candy Tank apparently picked up at the store earlier.
Bags of conversation hearts and heart-shaped chocolates are scattered across the coffee table like festive ammunition.
"You bought heart-shaped chocolates?" Elias examines a pink foil-wrapped piece with unconcealed amusement, holding it up to the light. "Tank. Big scary military Tank. That's adorable. Absolutely precious."
"They were on sale," Tank grunts, not looking up from his slice of pepperoni. "Seventy percent off. Practical purchase."
"Mmmhmm." Elias unwraps the chocolate and pops it in his mouth with a knowing grin. "Very practical. Very romantic. Did you get the ones with the little messages inside too?"
Tank throws a conversation heart at his head with sniper precision. It bounces off Elias's forehead with a satisfying thwack and lands in Julian's lap, who picks it up with two fingers and reads the message stamped on it.