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“Excusez-moi, monsieur Dantes?”
Edmond Dantes, former Captain in a very old life, former Count of Monte Cristo in a more recent one, and currently an Avenger-class Servant in Chaldea, was as surprised that someone had spoken to him of their own volition as he was that they had spoken in French.
He was sitting alone at the corner table of Chaldea’s mess hall, drinking from a pitch black (and secretly sweetened) cup of coffee. He would not even have afforded himself this luxury, except that people were more apt to leave him alone if he appeared to be dining.
Which is why the appearance of the Archer Servant, a tall, dark man with snow white hair clad in red and black, was, again, surprising.
“Votre accent est répugnant, monsieur,” Dantes said, feigning a smile to try and make his curt dismissal at least somewhat polite.
The other Servant was still as stone faced as he ever was. “Je parle plusieurs langues. Je n'ai jamais prétendu bien les parler.”
“For both our sakes, then, say what you must and be on your way.” Edmond dropped any assumed niceties. He had the distinct impression that something was afoot, and if there was going to be a fight of some kind…
The Archer cleared his throat into his fist. “Let me just say for the record that I only did this under great duress.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing towards the kitchen line.
Dantes leaned out of his seat, and who else did he see huddling and whispering conspiratorially but his Master and fellow Avenger/French countrywoman, J’eanne d’Arc Alter.
“Those women will be the death of me,” he said beneath his breath, letting out a beleaguered sigh. “Very well, man. I know who to blame for what is about to happen; you may proceed without fear of consequence.”
The darker man froze for a moment, then turned around wordlessly to pluck something off of another table, uncovering a plate to reveal --
A sandwich.
...a very large , potentially heart-stopping sandwich, but that was what it undeniably must have been.
The Archer explained, a single cold, precise statement. “As I understand it, the Master asked for Jalter’s help in doing something special for your birthday, and this was the result.”
Damn. His Master’s ability to unfold his Saint Graph and read his through his history like her own personal novel had never sat well with him, but he hardly thought she would use her knowledge like this . Her empathy for the Servants under her care truly was her best feature and a crippling flaw -- one that the Dragon Witch had seen fit to abuse.
The Archer spoke again, perhaps because Dantes hadn’t responded except to fume silently in his seat. “While their hearts might be… a little misguided, I’m sure that this meal will be to your liking. They asked me to give it to you personally as a show of good faith.”
“...I see,” Dantes lied. He took the plate, and set it down onto the table, if only to better assess how dangerous it might have been. The two halves had been neatly sliced and arranged one on top of the other, and the cross-section gave a clear view of the ingredients. It looked like little more than an expertly-made ham and cheese, thick cut ham and plenty of melted cheese threatening to ooze out and ruin the otherwise excellent presentation. The whole affair was also dusted in a generous helping of powdered sugar that, while not immediately appealing on a breakfast sandwich, threatened to make Dantes indulge his sweet tooth.
He faced the archer once again. “I assume they convinced you to put hot sauce or razor blades or the like in here?”
For the first time in their conversation, the other man properly emoted: confusion, promptly followed by disgust.
“I’m a cook . I would never ruin a dish on purpose, even at the behest of my Master. This is a -- “ He paused for a beat, then continued. “It is an American dish, prepared in a rough approximation of French cuisine. The bread and cheese are brioche and gruyere, and of course the ham, mustard spread, and light mayonnaise were prepared by myself. It is regrettably sweet -- the recipe calls for “French toast”, and the Master insisted on keeping it sugary -- but nothing in there should put you off your appetite.”
“...I’ll admit to being confused, then.”
He sighed, and if they were not allies Edmond would seriously consider at least striking the man for his disrespect. “There’s not much to be confused by, monsieur. Dois-je expliquer comment manger un putain de sandwich?”
Edmond sneered in open contempt. “Ne me traitez pas comme un imbécile. Those two are sharing a joke, and if this is as competently made as it appears to be, I seem to have missed it.”
The archer’s eyes widened, then closed as he steepled his fingers to try and find and answer. When he finally opened them again, he said, “The sandwich is called a Monte Cristo.”
Edmond stood up and had taken a single step out of his chair before a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned his baleful gaze on the archer, who to his credit, didn’t flinch.“It’s disrespectful, to be sure, and I won’t stop you from giving those two what they’ve brought upon themselves. However,” he said as he took the offending hand off of Dantes to gesture at his ‘birthday meal’, “to do so without at least taking a bite would be an insult to me, and I wouldn’t be able to let that stand. I’d imagine you of all people sympathize.”
“Mind that imagination, boy, ” Edmond sneered… yet he couldn’t deny that the man surely deserved some closure for all the trouble he had been put to. With a glare, he reached for one of the sandwich halves, brought it to his mouth and bit into the soft, fried toast. The sweetness of the powdered sugar danced on his tongue, overtaken by the oddly complementary savoriness of the ham and mustard, as he promptly chewed and swallowed.
...he took a second bite, only because he hadn’t quite tasted every flavor. With some slowness and consideration, he realized just how excellent the cheese was. Real, authentic gruyere, its age brought out by the meat and sauce. This taste couldn’t be simulated or reproduced with some cheap store-bought or synthesized cheese; if he didn’t know any better, Edmond would almost say that this was exactly the same cheese his father had kept in the high cupboards of his childhood home, used only sparingly on the occasional Sunday afternoon…
Hmm. How long had it been since he had thought of that time?
It was odd that such an ostentatious sandwich had reminded him so vividly of more genuine food, but the sweetness of the custard and sugar on the toast actually made the quality of the other ingredients stand out all the more.
...Dantes realized that he had been standing and chewing for several seconds longer than was necessary, after an already superfluous bite. He swallowed, and reached desperately for something to say. “You said you made the sauces yourself?”
The archer nodded. “The trouble it takes to make is worth the taste, in my opinion. I wouldn’t have bothered if it was just an ordinary item, but… I have a very old, very good recipe for mustard. It’s done wonders on lonely Servants before.”
“I’m not ‘lonely’,” Dantes said. His words sounded petulant, even to his own ears. The archer smirked in response, and the Avenger sat down to try and preserve some semblance of dignity (while taking another bite of the poorly named sandwich). “This food is… decent enough that it would be a poor choice to just waste it. I shall finish; then I shall promptly take my revenge.”
“Of course. Don’t let me rush you.” He turned around as if to finally leave, then stopped to say one last thing. “Ah, I nearly forgot -- I made sandwiches for your two latest enemies at the Master’s behest. I’d imagine that they might want to join you momentarily.”
Dantes waved his hand dismissively. “What they do with the time remaining to them is their business. It makes no difference to me.”
The other Servant didn’t say a goddamn word, and his face had long since returned to a carefully neutral expression, but Dantes could feel as much as see the twinkle in his eyes. He walked off without a word, and Dantes had to take a prolonged sip of coffee in order to make his meal last until the other two joined him.
Which they did, in short order. The cook must have had the other two sandwiches nearly finished before serving Dantes, because both women joined him with plates in hand not a minute after the archer had returned to the kitchen.
“Dantes!” his Master said, cheerful as ever. “Look at this! Emiya called it a “Monte Cristo Madame”, but I think Countess of Monte Cristo has a better ring to it! Eh? Eh? ”
Dantes looked over at his Master’s plate. It was identical to his own sandwich, save for the egg that had been placed atop the powdered sugar, cut open and waterfalling yolk down the middle of the sandwich. He also stole a glance at Jalter’s plate, and was pleased to see that there was already a bite or two taken out of one of the halves. Looking up at Jalter, he saw that the woman was clearly trying to chew and swallow as subtly as possible.
“You should be more judicious about what you eat, Master,” the Count said smoothly, and he made room for them at his table. “That much cholesterol will make your ventricle start plotting against you.”
“Ehhhh, I got half a dozen different Servants trying to make themselves my personal fitness trainer, I think I’ll be okay. Besides, I’d take ten heart attacks if it meant never having to eat a regular apple for breakfast again as long as I live.”
“Hmm. Not quite as good when they aren’t magic?”
“Just the opposite; they taste so similar to Golden and Silver fruit that I feel like I’m going to start farming skeletons for mats every time Mash sneaks one onto my tray.” She jammed a fork into her sandwich, and put it lazily into her mouth. Her eyes went wide as she slapped the table enthusiastically. “This taste…! It’s really good! Jalty, we’ve got to have Emiya make this again for your birthday!” She continued to devour her extremely messy meal, alternating between shoving forkfuls of brunch into her mouth and rambling enthusiastically about food and other Servants and so on.
Gratifyingly, Jalter blushed slightly at the Master’s comment on her own birthday, muttering something under her breath before tucking into her own sandwich with unrestrained (if somewhat better mannered) hunger. And even as he chatted with his Master and ignored her attempts at flirting, the wheels turned in Dantes’ head regarding turnabout and fair play.
Oh, yes , how perfect. The old saying was trite, but horribly, appealingly true; the best revenge was living well.
That, and lording over his rival’s affinity for a food that shared his name for the rest of time.
Or until one of them killed the other. Whichever came first.