Headcanon that inspired this ficlet:
Logan surprisingly enjoys cooking, along with constructing self-recipes for the inner challenge (
and that reward of finally feeling satisfied-) but never really eats anything besides crofters, if at all, and otherwise; if Roman can know Spanish, Logan can know cooking. (An impressive yet secluded self-show of overall hard work, secret-and-scheduled spaced-out repetition, including over-dedication, diligence and devotion to the crafts with such an infinitesimal surface level crammed with *detail* and undoubtedly, great almost-motherly care.)
Although, he had to admit: even if he did manage to conjure up something he was somewhat outwardly proud of, it would be a hardship to bring himself to eat it nonetheless.
So when the sides discover these fresh, decorated-alpine-porcelain-plates laid out with perfectly delectable, almost magazine-like fantasy treats? They can't help themselves; with Roman scoffing two or three of the bloody things at a time down casually despite the heat and Virgil quietly sneaking off to his room hiding them in the comfort of his patched hoodie, which leads Patton to *politely* ask for the plates back.
They realise. As much as the love the little guy, he can't really *bake* anything besides cookies and some miniscule pastries.
So who made them?
The curves as if cursive had been turned into a cooking style, and perfectly chiseled edges alongside seemingly impossible symmetrical balance of the icing was incredible, *sheet* after *sheet* of colourful explosion;
they were *never* too sweet, burnt, frozen, expired or bland.
B l a n d .
That word, bland in itself, echoed in their unknowingly dense heads all day.
Edit: Thanks for reading! Might continue this :)