Blue Moon Rising

Chapter 43: Recipe for Disaster (I)

Summary:

Atlas and Barbara bond over Chinese food, leaving the former in good spirits and the later in another mood entirely. Consequently, Barbara takes the initiative. Later, NotEnrique and Atlas haggle.

Notes:

Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters.

Finally back on a normal update schedule. Big thanks to Vici and Charlie for looking over this chapter and giving me feedback. Ya'll are awesome. Thank you for all the reviews, kudos, and favorites. Also, 3Below was fantastic! Staja was adorable.

Also, big thanks to Jeeb who did a fantastic art piece of Atlas. Here's a link: https://jeebdoesart.tumblr.com/post/181375754692/mine-to-command-hey-go-check-out

And Vici did another comic which is super awesome. It's from the last chapter. They've done other comics for Blue Moon Rising as well. I totally recommend checking them out. Here's a link: http://vvvici.tumblr.com/post/181486765836/blue-moon-rising-commission-for-tunafishprincess

If you've got any fanart for the fic, send me a message! I'll happily post a link to your tumblr, insta, etc...:D I really appreciate these you guys. Ya'll are the best fans a gal could ever hope for. Thank you for continuing to read. Seriously.

Hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Atlas eyed the meal suspiciously.

Chicken wasn't supposed to be that color. Nevertheless, he trusted Barbara's choice. Takeout wasn't something he normally did (with the exception of pizza), but ever since he became friends with Toby he had become more open to the concept.

Deciding to take the plunge, he picked up a fork and stabbed at the meat. It slid on well enough. He tore it open; releasing out a soft sigh, he was relieved to find the outside did not match the in. Good. While he enjoyed cooking human meals, there were many he had yet to encounter; case in point: Silly Panda's orange chicken.

A second later, he plopped it into his mouth. Carefully munching the strange dish, he found it to be adequate. Atlas made a mental note to try his hand at the dish at some point. While it wasn't nearly up to par as his Poulet de Provencal, the sauce provided enough flavor to cover what would otherwise be a rather bland piece of poultry. If they had really wanted it to delicious they should have cooked it at a different temperature and with far less salt.

Still, Atlas persevered. He had eaten worse.

"Is everything alright?" His mother inquired, brows drawn. The couch cushion creaked as she sat down next to him, shrimp fried rice in one hand and a fork in the other.

"Ah, yes," he stammered, shoveling another piece into his mouth. A sprinkling of shame flowed through him. His mother had gotten this for him. He should be more appreciative. "Oh, so good," he tried to moan. "I've never eaten Chinese takeout before."

"You don't have to pretend. I won't get angry at you," she remarked.

Giving up the act, Atlas set it down on the coffee table. His fingers drummed against his knees. "It's not bad or anything. I just prefer to cook things myself."

Of all the things he could do for his dad, cooking was the only useful thing he was able to do. He wasn't the best fighter or the best spy, but damn could he make a good fennel and lemon risotto. It was his specialty. His gift. After all, what else could he offer?

The edges of his mother's lips edged upwards, her eyes taking on a soft sheen. "Some things never change."

His gaze traveled to the carpet. "Was I like that before?"