The PRT shelter was a re-purposed community center at the edge of town that still smelled faintly of mildew and scorched drywall. However, it had heat, working lights, and beds that weren't made of concrete and ash. That alone made it a miracle.
The medics had offered him a cot in one of the side rooms. Ralts had already curled up on the pillow like it was a prize. Riley hovered at his side, silent, clutching a folded blanket too big for her.
Satoshi smiled gently, brushing a hand through their hair.
"I'll just be a minute," he said. "There's something I want to do."
He left the cot, gave a little wave to EMIYA—who had stationed himself like a watchtower at the corner of the room—and headed toward the scent of something not blood or smoke.
The makeshift kitchen was barely a room: four folding tables, a couple of propane burners, and a donated stockpile of cans, boxed pasta, and other foodstuffs. A volunteer looked up in surprise as Satoshi entered.
"I can help," he said, already rolling up his sleeves.
The volunteer blinked. "You're injured."
Satoshi smiled, tired but firm. "I'm a chef. This is how I rest."
He was already moving before she could argue—sorting vegetables, soaking rice, checking supplies with practiced ease.
A few moments later, there were soft footsteps behind him.
He turned to see that Riley had followed him, blanket dragging slightly behind her. She said nothing, just shuffled over and hovered nearby, eyes flicking between his hands and the food.
Satoshi gestured to a second cutting board. "Want to help me wash some of these?"
She nodded silently and moved closer. And just like that, she was peeling carrots with trembling hands, focused, like if she stopped she'd wake up back in a nightmare.
Satoshi didn't stop her. He just peeled beside her in silence.
From the other side of the room, he felt EMIYA's eyes on him. Not close enough to interrupt. Not far enough to be casual. Just… watching.
Eventually, he spoke—calm, low. "You should be resting."
Satoshi smiled faintly, without looking up. "This is resting."
There was a pause. Then EMIYA sighed again—the kind that sounded like it had been passed down from centuries. "…You're an idiot."
But his voice was softer. Almost fond.
.
Satoshi didn't mean to go overboard. He really didn't. But the moment he picked up the knife—felt its weight settle into his palm like an old friend—something shifted. Muscle memory took over. Movements smoothed out. Timing became instinct. Not just skill. Not just practice. Something deeper. Something anchored.
Isshiki Satoshi was a chef from a world where food wasn't just sustenance. It was comfort. Connection. Healing. And as he moved through the makeshift kitchen, surrounded by dented pots and scavenged ingredients, something came alive in him.
He wasn't just cooking.
He was mending.
He started with onions—caramelized low and slow until golden. Potatoes and carrots followed, chopped with rhythmic ease, each stroke steady, certain. Whatever meat the PRT had salvaged—canned, cured, or frozen—he seared to bring out umami before folding it into the simmering pot.
Spices bloomed in the oil. Stock cubes melted. A thick roux came together in the pan, improvised from scavenged butter, flour, and curry powder. When he combined it all, the scent that rose was rich, earthy, and deep.
Japanese curry stew. Heavy with warmth. Soft with sweetness. Just enough spice to chase the cold out of tired bones.
He didn't stop at the basics. Whatever extras he found—diced apples for sweetness, soy sauce for depth, even a splash of instant coffee—he used with care, weaving together something more than the sum of its parts.
Three massive pots for more than fifty portions.
Hot. Filling. Real.
He didn't decorate the plates. He didn't need to. The steam rising off each bowl was its own kind of presentation. The smell was enough to draw survivors from their quiet corners, nurses and agents alike pausing just to breathe it in.
And then he served it.
To everyone. The injured, the exhausted survivors, the wary PRT agents, the medics, even the command staff. Each received a bowl or plate—no favorites, no hierarchy.
He worked quietly, focused, hair tied back, apron borrowed and already stained.
Riley followed him like a duckling with perfect posture, holding trays with Ralts floating beside her to steady them.
People didn't speak. Not at first.
They took their first bite—and then the room changed. Eyes widened. Mouths opened. Some people let out soft gasps, some groaned under their breath. One of the more hardened agents physically stepped back like he'd been stabbed with flavor.
The medic who'd tried to treat him earlier whispered, "Is this heaven?" and held the bowl like it was a newborn.
A recovering teenager with a broken arm cried. Cried.
The commander sat down heavily after a single mouthful, looked into his bowl with a haunted reverence, and muttered, "Id he was one of us, I would promote him."
Satoshi didn't say anything. He just smiled, cheeks flushed from the steam, hands still moving as he plated the next round.
This was his world now. And in this moment, he was exactly where he belonged.
Eventually, the rush slowed.
Bellies were full. Conversations softened. A kind of peace settled into the shelter—fragile but real.
Satoshi sat on a crate just outside the kitchen, a bowl of curry in his hands and a quiet ache in his shoulders that was more satisfying than painful. Riley was tucked beside him, slowly eating from her own bowl like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to enjoy it. Ralts sat on her lap, eyes closed in bliss.
Then a shadow fell over them. EMIYA didn't speak. Just sat beside them on another crate, setting down some documents with quiet finality before accepting the bowl Satoshi handed over.
He took one bite then blinked. Chewed. Swallowed. And stared at the bowl like it had personally healed a childhood trauma.
"…What the hell did you put in this?" he muttered.
Satoshi frowned, brows scrunching. "It's just what I could scavenge."
EMIYA took another bite, this time slower. Thoughtful. Cautious, like the bowl might vanish if he didn't savor it.
Riley leaned into Satoshi's side, content and half-asleep, chewing with the bliss of someone who hadn't tasted comfort in years.
For a while, none of them said anything until EMIYA spoke again—quiet, clipped.
"…So. About the whole 'marriage' thing."
Satoshi winced. "…Yeah."
Ralts opened one eye, sensing the shift.
Satoshi stirred his stew, not meeting EMIYA's gaze. "I didn't choose it. I mean—I didn't know I was choosing it. It must've been part of the background package they gave me. The Company, I mean. I just thought you'd be listed as my companion. Not… spouse."
EMIYA raised an eyebrow.
"They forged legal immigration records for us. Together. Under domestic partnership laws."
"I know," Satoshi groaned. "Believe me, I saw."
A pause.
"…Are you mad?"
EMIYA didn't answer right away. Then, slowly, he said, "I've been forcibly bound to people before. I've had my body, mind, and will hijacked by systems that treated me like a tool."
He took another bite of stew. "I'm not mad that this happened. I'm mad that I didn't get to choose even if I'm not surprised."
Satoshi swallowed thickly. "That's fair."
Riley, quiet, blinked up at them both. "You're married?"
Satoshi flushed.
EMIYA gave a long, slow exhale. "We are now."
"…Cool," Riley said, slurping her stew again.
Satoshi let out a tiny, embarrassed laugh. "It doesn't have to mean anything."
"It already does," EMIYA said, but his voice wasn't angry. Just… tired and a little resigned.
They ate in peace for a while. The kind of silence that wasn't awkward, just full. Comforting. Even Riley seemed content, nestled between him and Ralts, the bowl resting on her knees.
Then EMIYA spoke again, quiet but thoughtful.
"If you're going to keep cooking like this," he said, "I might stop resenting our legal entanglement."
Satoshi snorted softly. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Low bar."
"Still counts."
Another pause. Then, almost reluctantly, EMIYA added, "Would you teach me?"
Satoshi blinked. "…Teach you?"
EMIYA nodded, still eating. "I know how to cook. I'm not bad at it. But whatever you just made? That wasn't 'good.' That was... transcendent."
Satoshi blinked again—then beamed. "Well, yeah! I mean—I'd love to. I mostly stick to Japanese cuisine, since that's what I trained with, but I love to mix styles. I'm not big on rigid tradition. I like finding how flavors talk to each other, you know?"
He started to gesture as he spoke, the words coming faster, more animated. "Like, French sauces with Japanese broths? Italian simplicity with Korean spice profiles? And don't even get me started on regional Southeast Asian stews, because—"
He yawned mid-sentence. Then blinked slowly.
Riley and Ralts both looked up sleepily at him, but he didn't stop talking even if the excitement dimmed a little. His next sentence slurred slightly. "—I mean, miso's amazing, right? You can do, like… earthy or sweet, or aged, and the fermentation layers—it's like… ngh, magic…"
Another yawn broke through as he leaned back against the wall, eyes drooping, smile still on his face.
EMIYA raised an eyebrow. "You're falling asleep."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm just… conserving energy between flavor-based hypotheticals…"
"You're slurring."
"M'fine."
Riley yawned next to him and tugged gently at his sleeve. "We can rest now. You fed everyone."
Saroshi blinked down at her—then gave a crooked smile and nodded. "…Okay. But you're all on dish duty tomorrow."
EMIYA watched him for a moment, then spoke quietly. "You need to sleep."
That seemed to cut through the fog more than anything else had. Satoshi blinked, eyes half-lidded but a little more focused. "Yeah… yeah, you're right."
He looked down and gently lifted Riley, who was dozing off with her arms wrapped around Ralts like a stuffed animal. She didn't stir, just breathed softly against his chest.
She wasn't heavy—not really, but Satoshi's limbs felt like lead. The adrenaline had long since worn off, and every step now was an effort of will more than strength. He looked toward the sleeping area and then down at Riley, before ask for help or even say a word, EMIYA was already moving. Strong arms slid under Satoshi's knees and shoulders, and before he could react, he was lifted clean off the ground—bridal style—with Riley still cradled in his arms.
Satoshi yelped, a high-pitched noise escaping before he slapped a hand over his own mouth.
"Let her sleep," EMIYA murmured, deadpan.
"I wasn't ready—!"
"Clearly."
Satoshi flushed but didn't argue further. Not with Riley tired and falling asleep against his chest, and not with Ralts quietly humming beside her. So he let himself be carried. Not for his own sake, but for hers.
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