Butterflies Volume II

Chapter 28

When Violet was 25, she bought her first cooking book. Lydia had taught her the most about food and cooking, and although it took her a while to feel comfortable touching raw chicken, she found a love for it very quickly. When Lydia died, all the recipes she had taught her cemented into her brain. She wouldn't cook anything else, refusing to even modify or slightly change a recipe for her needs. If it was done perfectly, it was like she was still there. But eating the same thing every day got repetitive.

Beside her lying open was the very first cooking book she had ever bought, tattered with its years of use. She had forgotten some of what Lydia taught her, the meals she didn't prefer, the exact measurements of the ones she loved. She bought the book seeking something more. It was an escape, and the reward was always tasteful. Even when her life seemed to have no purpose, she could hide within spices and pasta and sauces until she couldn't get up from her sofa.

When she moved in with Billy, she realised how much he wasn't a fan of cooking. After long hours of work, he would groan for a takeaway, not willing to wait as Violet bustled around their small kitchen. He was practical first, and she would rant about how his horrible diet contributed to his deteriorating health. Joking back he would say, "the cancer doesn't give a fuck about some burgers" but that would further her rant and he would be left to complain like a child. Cooking, and cooking well, saves part of your soul, and she wouldn't let him worsen his chances with what he still had control over.

She threw a pinch of salt into her pasta sauce, waiting for Billy to get home. Lined up on the surface to her left were his bottles of pills, all of which she acquired herself. Painkillers, vitamins, she would do anything in her power to extend his time, even if she had to shove them down his throat herself. Once with breakfast, once with dinner. And as she faintly heard the front door click, along with a sigh, she pretended not to notice. She grinned, stirring away slowly, as keys were dropped to the side and boots were chucked off.

A hand slid around her waist, tugging her into his body. Another pushed her hair from her neck, kissing down her cheek. She hummed, leaning back into his touch, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. If this was what a normal life was like, please let her live in it for longer.

"Hello gorgeous," Billy said into her ear, his left hand around her waist slipping under her shirt, "smells fucking good in here."

"It's the favourite, spinach pasta," she replied, craning her head to kiss him.

He hummed, pulling them away from the hob and to a kitchen cabinet instead. With their lips still connected, he shook off his jacket and threw it across the room. Violet tried not to chuckle, savouring the feeling of his hair, because it was an act she was beginning to recognise. Come home, and when she's halfway through cooking, he suddenly gets the urge to drag her to bed until they were panting and the food was burnt, and then smirk as she gives in to a takeaway.

"Okay, at least let me finish the meal before you take my clothes off," she pulled away to say, giving a faux glare.

He backed away, holding his hands up, "all right, all right. How'd it go then?"

Violet scoffed, moving back to her space at the hob, "shit, as to be expected. How'd it go with the mission?"

"Shit, as to be expected."

She smiled knowingly, checking the pasta. Grace had told her it was better for her not to be in attendance, due to her identity being plundered by the public. She would be recognised, she would give away their position. But that didn't extend to Annie, who was arguably more famous. Violet was kept away for just the same reason Billy wasn't leading.

"Frenchie's gas didn't work," Billy explained, "just fucked up her outfit. Kimiko lost an arm fighting Zoe... I ran into Ryan..."

"Oh? He and Homelander were there?" Her head turned.