Subject: [OTL]: [Ruse] A Day Late, A Dollar Short (1/1)
Date: Sat, 17 Aug 2002 17:31:30 +0000
From: Smitty <smittywing@yahoo.com>

Disclaimer:  The characters in this story belong to Crossgen Comics.  I
claim no ownership or income from any of it.

Rated: PG-13 for innuendo

Continuity:  Somewhere between issues #6 and #10.

Author's Notes:  Thanks to Kerrie, whose 329-word fic somehow wormed
itself in here, and thanks to Sandra, who knew the answer to my question
and emailed me post haste.  And most of all, thanks to 'rith for letting
me forget her birthday for a month.

A Day Late, A Dollar Short
By Smitty

    Emma Bishop had never been so pleased to see Simon Archard go jump
in a lake.
    Of course it wasn't really a lake, it was that horrid bathysphere 
he inhabited when something baffled him.  But Emma was pleased,
nonetheless.  Simon was out of her hair for a good several hours,
puzzling out, of all things, Emma's unusual behavior.
    She'd been purposely misleading with her actions, dropping half-words
at the most inopportune times and allowing herself to be seen in the
company of some, rather than others.
    A hint or two at a clandestine love affair.  But no lover.
    A whisper that perhaps Miss Bishop would be leaving Mr. Archard's
employ for a revival of her stage career.  But no letters of interest,
and Emma was quite sure Simon checked her quarters.  She rather hoped he
found the stack of playbills under her blue silk corset and was suitably
shocked that she would own such a garment.  If nothing else, it would
serve as misdirection.
    There was even talk of Emma becoming Mrs. Simon Archard.  But that
was hardly a viable option as Simon would no doubt be the first to know.
    So Simon pondered and Emma plotted and the townspeople purported to
know what went on behind the heavy doors of Simon Archard's
headquarters.
    As it was, Emma was merely planning for Simon's birthday.
    But, that was all part of the  misdirection.  Simon's birthday had been
over a month past.  She hadn't known, hadn't even thought about it until
one night when she was entrenched in long, secretive hours of research
about Simon's past with Malcolm Lightbourne.  A clipping, saved by a man
who cared about such things, about a great gala held in celebration of
Simon Archard's birthday.  The date was three weeks prior, a dozen years
ago.  Emma felt a vague sense of guilt for being so completely oblivious
to Simon's birthday, although, she reminded herself, it was hardly her
fault.  Simon was more forthcoming about a toothache.
    So, with Simon safely ensconced in his watery can, Emma hurried down
to the kitchen to let in her co-conspirators.  Simon employed no cook.  
He was just a shade more than what Emma would consider understandably
paranoid and was often absent for long stretches of time so he and Emma
took most of their meals in restaurants or at social engagements.  But
still, there was a kitchen in the bowels of the headquarters, and Emma
intended to make good use of it.
    She opened the side door carefully, a stiff wind whipping her hair
and dress back into the kitchen, and peered around it.  No one?
    No, she heard giggling and the aroma of cheap toilet water.
    "Girls!" she called.  "You can come out now!"
    They tumbled out of hiding and swarmed into the kitchen, hair mussed
and cheeks ruddy.  Emma silently hoped none of the neighbors had seen
them.  Simon would no doubt be incensed that prostitutes had invaded his
vaunted headquarters.  Then again, the more rumors, the better.
    "Oh, the first thing to do's take her hair down," Michelle exclaimed,
attacking Emma's upsweep.
    "C'mon, sweetie, I brought all my rouges and powders," Tammy said,
hefting a makeup bag that made Emma's own valise seem dainty in
comparison.  "Let's find you a mirror."
    "No, wha--wait!" Emma exclaimed, frantically trying to gather up the
remains of her hairstyle.  "What are you doing?"
    "Why honey, we're just dolling you up for that 'little something
special' you wanted t'give Simon," Tiffany explained, a wide smile on
her face.  "An' just 'tween you and us," she confided, leaning forward
conspiratorially, "we're thinking ol' Simon could do with a little
attention, y'know?"
    "No!"  Emma gaped at Tiffany, her mouth frozen open comically. "We--
I am his partner!"
    Tammy raised an overly-plucked eyebrow.
    "Er, his assistant!  Our relationship is purely professional!  The
reason I called Ladybird Nell," Emma explained hurriedly, smoothing the
front of her dress, "was because I have little experience in the kitchen
and I had intended on baking him a cake!"
    "A cake?"
    The three women looked at each other.
    "Well," Tiffany said hopefully, "you can always lick the icing off
his--"
    "Out!"

    Silly idea, anyway, inviting streetwalkers to a building which once
served as a cathedral.  Doomed from the start, Emma thought cheerfully,
measuring out a third of a cup of cocoa.  After all, who needed help to
make a cake?  She'd acquired a recipe from one of Simon's agents for a
chocolate torte.  And who disliked chocolate?  Even Simon has to obey
the rules of human nature sometimes.
    Of course, she reflected, it would have helped if the recipe had
indicated what size cup to use.  It was difficult enough guessing at
where one-third was, but to not know which sort of cup to use?  Perhaps
this baking thing had a trick to it after all, Emma considered.  She
already had the stove heating and a quarter cup of butter--no specifics
there, either--melting in a saucepan.  The cocoa went in next, she knew,
digging a bit out of the cup with a spoon to bring the amount closer to
a third.  She stuck the spoon in her mouth and nearly gagged.  Horrible!
 Apparently cocoa was only delicious when combined with milk, sugar, and
the rest of the cake ingredients.  Well, live and learn, Emma thought
diplomatically, washing her mouth out with water.  She patted her mouth
dry and wrinkled her nose.  It smelled somewhat like something
was…burning?  Her eyes widened in panic and she leapt for the stove in
time to see the butter start to smoke.
    Emma scowled at the pan as she pulled it from the flame and dumped
it in the sink.  Fine then.  It was just a bit of butter.  She'd start
over.
    She watched this round of butter like a hawk, hovering over it with
the cocoa cup in her hand.  The moment it seemed sufficiently melted, she
dumped in the chocolate powder and remembered to move it off the flame.
    Very good, she congratulated herself.  One little slipup, nothing to
worry about.  Onto the second step.  Beat two-thirds of a cup of butter,
softened, and a cup of sugar until creamy.  Easy enough.  One cup,
two-thirds full of butter, and another filled to the brim with sugar.
Emma considered her ingredients.  She hadn't though to sit the butter
out before and it really wasn't very soft.  Maybe she'd melt it.  She
looked for another small pan but the only ones available were quite a
bit larger than she'd intended.  Well, it only had to be softened.
Maybe if she just waved the cup over the heat, the butter would
cooperate.
    Unfortunately, Emma's hand warmed before the butter.  She quickly
replaced the cup on the drainboard.  Simon had a pair of tongs he used
to hold test tubes he was heating, Emma recalled.  He was in the tank
and would never miss them, she assured herself, hurrying to the lab.
She peeked around the door first, just in case he'd surfaced, but there
he was, floating as an insensate white blob.  Probably the best place
for him, Emma though judiciously.  Difficult to insult people when
you're submerged.  Finding the tongs, Emma returned to the kitchen to
find flame leaping from the heated area of the stove.
    "Oh, bother," she cried, grabbing a lid and slapping it down over the
fire.  She fiddled with the temperatures of the oven and lowered the gas
level.  "There."  She removed the lid with Simon's tongs, which worked
spectacularly, but had less luck with the cup.  The tongs simply weren't
wide enough to clasp the entire cup, but grasping the handle seemed to
tip the cup to its side.  Emma struggled along this way for a bit before
realizing that clenching the rim of the cup between the two sides of the
tongs was awkward positioning for her, but a firm grip.  She declared
the butter melted at the earliest possible occasion and dumped it into a
bowl with the sugar.  Several vigorous stirrings later, Emma deemed the
concoction 'creamy'.  How was she supposed to know what 'creamy' looked
like anyway?  Next, her chocolate mixture was to go with the sugar and
butter mixture but…why wasn't it coming out of the pan?  Oh!  She'd let
it sit too long and it had solidified again.  She *knew* there was a
reason she stuck to detecting, Emma thought angrily, scraping the stuff
out with a spoon.  It was all going in the oven straight away anyway.
The next set of directions was misleading in this manner, too.  The
stupid woman expected her to separate the eggs, apparently into yolks
and whites--just how was she to do that?--and stir one in the mixture
while combining the other with sugar before mixing it in.
    "No reason," she murmured to herself, cracking the eggs right into the
batter.  "Silly woman's probably still upset about  having to refinance
her restaurant and is taking it out on me," she griped, tossing in the
three extra spoonfuls of sugar and the salt, almonds and vanilla.
Almonds and almond extract?  Seemed redundant, she decided, skipping the
last ingredient.  Now, to add milk.  But she was out of the cups she had
been using.  There were slightly larger cups, but it was probably best
to keep a standard measure, Emma reasoned.  She looked at her growing
pile of dishes in the sink and wrinkled her nose.  How was she meant to
even *find* something in there?  She'd just use a larger cup and pour
less than a quarter of it.  There was just a dribble of milk left in the
bottle after she had judged a quarter cup and she drank that herself,
wishing it was wine.  Hm, wine.  Wine might enhance the flavor of the
chocolate.  She found a bottle and added a healthy dollop.  There.  Her
own special touch.
    Blend until smooth.  For some reason this seemed to be a huge problem.
It was smooth enough, but there were this hard lumps still evident in
the mix and Emma's wrist was getting tired from stirring.  She bashed
one of the lumps with the edge of her spoon, expecting a lump of powder
to fall apart, ready to be stirred in.  No such luck.  Maybe she should
pick them out.  She nudged at another one and rolled her eyes.
    The almonds were supposed to have gone in last.
    Emma was never so relieved as to pour the batter into a pan and shove
it in the oven.  She collapsed in a chair to drink another glass of wine
while she waited for the cake to bake.
    After twenty minutes, she opened the oven and peered inside.  It looked
done.  It looked fluffy, a high mound of moist chocolate, glistening in
the light.  Emma remembered to use potholders when removing it from the
heat.  Excellent!  She placed it on the counter and turned to close the
oven. When she turned back to her cake, the moist, beautiful, rounded
top was a mere half inch from the bottom of the pan.  Emma gasped.  How
dare it!  How on earth had it fallen so quickly?  Surely that wasn't her
fault!
    Emma was so busy lamenting the fate of her cake that she almost 
missed Simon calling her name.  She wiped her hands on her apron before
realizing she'd taken her apron off when relaxing.  She glanced down in
dismay at the dusty handprints on her dress and attacked them
frantically with a dishtowel.  Good enough, she decided, running
upstairs in time to catch Simon in his office.
    "There you are," he said, his tone a touch suspicious.  His eyes
narrowed minutely and he sniffed almost inaudibly.  "Hm.  We're dining
with the Oxford-Collins' this evening."  He took in her rumpled dress
and disheveled hair.  "Please tell me you're not ready to go."
    "I'll be just a minute," Emma told him sweetly, sweeping from the
room.
    "Emma?"
    "Yes, Simon?"
    "You have chocolate on your nose.  Saving it for a special
occasion?"


    The Oxford-Collins' were dreadfully dull people, Emma admitted, but
at least they had the good taste not to serve dessert.  She'd nearly
dragged Simon home to present him with her baking debut.  So it was a
little flat.  Simon certainly had no idea how cakes were supposed to be,
she assured herself.
    "What is it that I’m waiting for?" he asked when she'd settled him
on a settee to wait for her return.
    "You'll see," she assured him coyly as she swung through the door.
She hurried down to the kitchen to retrieve the cake, which looked slightly
more dented than before, and ran back to Simon's office with it before
it damaged itself further.
    "What is that?" Simon queried when she'd set the pan down in front of
him.  "It resembles a pastry, but even your destructive tendencies could
not bring such a thing to the state it's in now."  He glanced up at her
appraisingly.  "On the other hand, I believe you eminently capable of
obliterating anything you put your mind to."
    "Why, Simon, you really do appreciate me," Emma replied sarcastically.
"No, you goose.  It's a birthday cake.  I realize it's a month late but--"
    "Emma.  I don't suppose it occurred to you that I failed to announce
my birthday for a reason?"
    "I figured you were just being modest.  I didn't think it would be a
good idea to allow you fire, but I thought perhaps I could sing--"
    "That certainly won't be necessary," Simon interrupted, holding up a
hand as he rose. "I believe this..."  He leaned down to examine the cake
again.  "...egregious manifestation of misplaced enthusiasm, would be
best put out of its misery at the earliest possible convenience."
    "You'll be having a piece?"
    "I have no desire to regurgitate my dinner," Simon assured her, taking
her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles.  "I have certain
things to attend to.  Please deal with this as you feel appropriate."
    Emma fumed as she watched his retreating back.  How dare he?
    He was Simon Archard.  He dared whatever he wished.
    "Oh," he added, turning back when he was nearly out of earshot.
"Kindly dispel the web of rumors you've been building in town at your
earliest possible convenience.  Amusing as they were, the distraction is
no longer necessary."
    So, Emma considered, as he vanished, maybe he was surprised after
all. With a sigh she returned the cake to the kitchen and retired to 
her quarters.  After all this time, how could she have expected a
poorly-made lump of chocolate and flour to melt Simon's heart when so
many better attempts had failed?

    Emma stared at her ceiling.  It was rather a nice ceiling, but less
interesting than say, watching Simon hang in his silly tank.  Even just
thinking of Simon's name made her blood boil.  All she did for that man
and he mocked her!  No one else took the least bit of notice in his
birthday.  She might not have been timely, she admitted, but wasn't it
the thought that counted?
    Fine then, she decided, kicking her covers back and struggling into
her dressing gown.  So what if Simon didn't want her cake.  She'd just 
eat some herself.  After all, a chocolate torte was not something to be
wasted, even if it had been the subject of a few…miscommunications.
Emma slipped down the stairs silently and crossed the grand foyer to the
back steps that led down to the kitchen.  She frowned when she reached
the kitchen and saw a faint light on under the door.  She approached as
quietly as possible and then threw the door open with as much commotion
as she could manage.
    "Who's here?" she demanded, gazing imperiously about the kitchen, only
to see Simon seated at the table by the light of a single gas lamp, with
a plate of cake in one hand and a fork in the other. He was dressed but
his jacket and ascot were gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his
forearms, and his pocketwatch sitting on the table.
    "Just who did you expect?" he queried, taking another bite of cake.
"And I should convey to you that this cake is terrible."
    "Thank you," Emma replied haughtily, ignoring his first question.
"I note that you *are* still eating it."
    "I was hungry," he said rationally.  "It was here.  You forgot to
grease the pan, by the way."  He pushed the pan at her and she gazed
into it to note that indeed, he was correct.  A layer of chocolate had
charred onto the bottom.  She wondered how much the pan had cost and
whether it could be replaced more easily than cleaned.  "Here."
    Emma looked up to see a clean fork proffered.
    "You knew I was awake?" she asked, taking the fork gratefully and
gingerly detaching a bit of cake from the whole.
    "I know that wherever there is chocolate, a woman is not far away,"
Simon stated.  "No matter how badly executed the recipe may be."
    "You've been incredibly blasé over this entire affair," Emma sniffed,
placing the bit of cake in her mouth.  "Doesn't it matter to you at all?
Oh.  My.  This is rather--"  She coughed delicately.  "--bad, isn't it?
A bit dry...perhaps."  Simon silently passed over a tall glass of milk
and Emma drank from it gratefully, aware that it was his own glass and
not caring.
    "I assumed you found reference to the date in old newspapers, though
I fail to recognize what would be so important about it as to disrupt your
day and destroy my kitchen," Simon explained, gesturing at the pile of
pans in the sink with a casual hand.  "And don't think that just because
the lighting's dim I can't see the layer of flour over everything."  He
took his glass back and drank some milk, leaving the rest between them.
    Emma sighed and took another bite of cake from the pan.  "I'll clean it
up tomorrow," she promised.  She made a face and reached for the milk glass.
    "I have no doubt.  I also expect my heating tongs back in my laboratory
before noon.  Whatever you did with those, I do not want to know.  What
I do want to know, is why go to such lengths to produce a substandard
dessert for an occasion that obviously did not concern me in the least?"
    "Because, Simon," Emma said, setting down her fork and rising from
the table, "I'm your friend."  She leaned forward and kissed Simon's temple
lightly, then turned to leave.  "Oh, Simon?"
    There was a moment of silence before he answered. "Yes, Emma?"
    "Did you really have no idea?  Were you surprised?"
    Simon tilted his head and ate another bite of cake, washing it down
with the last of the milk.
    "I have to admit," he said after swallowing.  "When Ladybird Nell
suggested I have protection on hand for tonight, it hadn't occurred to
me that she meant an antidote for food poisoning."
    Emma's eyes widened and she clapped one hand over her mouth.
    The silence edged on, broken only by Simon's fork scraping his plate
until Emma found her voice again.
    "Good night, Simon."
    "Good night, Emma."

-Fin-

Note: The recipe for Emma's torte was adapted from the one found here:
http://cake.allrecipes.com/AZ/ChcltLvrsTrt.asp

Breaking Hearts and Faces, Daily