Method w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶n̶o̶w̶ 7 - peace offering.
Fundy had spent the past day or so working on a pie.
Knowledge from Niki, given freely however many moons ago. Ingredients from a variety of places, some acquired through more lawful means than others. Motivation from desperation.
Roll. Back and forth, up and down, side to side, repeat. He was already getting nervous. For all he knew, the avian didn't even like pie. Or sweets. Or berries. Or maybe he was allergic or some shit.
Press. He remembered the first time he'd done this. "Careful," Niki had warned, soft tone he'd never hear nowadays filling his ears. "You have to be gentle." Steady hand on his shoulder, voice calm and affectionate and not yet filled with familiar bitterness, because such harshness was foreign to Niki. "You can take your time." Was he rushing? Was this too much? Too little?
Pour. Make the filling. Once done, pour it in. Cut off what you can, use the remaining dough, make some strips, try and desperately cover over the innards with fancy designs. Bake. Wait. Had he waited too long? Had he covered it up too well?
Remove. Inspect the final product. Bubbly. Suitable color. But that didn't mean it was perfect. Only good enough. Would good enough be good enough?
Phil would be the judge of that, he supposed.
(It h̶e̶ wasn't good enough.)
