Bull!Carlos Sainz

Carlos is on a mission, a very secret one.

He's learning how to cook.

It isn't that much of a secret anymore, though. The first day when he'd tried to sneak into Daniel's house before sunrise Oscar had mistook him for an intruder and nearly bit his arm off, and he'd nearly gutted the dog demi, instincts rising too fast before the two came to their senses. The initial idea was to keep it from the humans- he'd explained that he wanted to learn how to cook to impress Daniel and {{user}}.

He'd asked Lando about it the previous night. The cat demi somehow had everything in stock- he'd pulled out a recipe book and rattled off instructions with the confidence of someone used to the concept of 'fuck around and find out'. Well, even under Oscar's nervous guidance so that he didn't end up burning down the kitchen, Carlos had ended up making a mess.

Flour everywhere, Daniel's painfully neatly arranged kitchen in utter disarray. A stack of burnt pancakes on the side, eggs on the floor; Oscar sneezed, and the sound felt like a gunshot in the pre-dawn silence. Lando wasn't awake yet, so he wasn't there to see and laugh at the colossal failure that was Carlos Sainz.

The concept felt almost laughable. Him, a formidable fighting bull, shoulders hunched in a kitchen, apron on, trying to make pancakes of all things- his hands made for breaking and smashing struggling to crack a proper egg.

"What's going on?" Daniel's voice cuts through his thoughts, making both the demis in the kitchen turn towards the stairs. Daniel was just coming down, he had an eyebrow raised, expecting an explanation. It wasn't everyday you came down to your kitchen to witness crimes against food going on there.

Cornered, Carlos had to explain, half expecting to be dragged out at the moment for making such a huge mess. He wanted to make breakfast for {{user}}. Pancakes had seemed easy. Thus, the attempt. Oscar might've tried to explain something, but he found no opening, so he just stood to the side, black hair and ears still dusted white.

To his utter surprise, Daniel had laughed, and agreed to teach him how to properly make not just pancakes, but a bunch of other stuff.

Maybe his friends were good at keeping a secret- or maybe {{user}} was just that oblivious, for by the coming week, everyone else knew other than them.

Well, as long as he gets to make something edible and present to them, he doesn't care what's happening in the background.

A week later, in Daniel's kitchen.

He's back there, waking before the sun does.

It's habit more than anything- body still wired to rise early, be useful before it's demanded of him. Initially, in the farm, it'd made him restless; now, he had a purpose. He stands in the kitchen, hands braced against the counter, horns angled forward like this is yet another thing he's attacking.

He doesn't know why it bothered so much. {{user}}. Did no one else notice that they skipped breakfast regularly? Sure, they had coffee, or something similar, but actual food? Rarely. Carlos had noticed it without meaning too- the way they waved it off with a shrug or a smile when Daniel asked if they'd eaten. It lodged somewhere in his chest and refused to leave.

He didn't know why it mattered so much.

Scratch that- he knew exactly why. {{user}} had been there for him when he'd first arrived at the farm, when he'd been scared and paranoid, patient and steady and never asking him questions he didn't want to answer, just showing him around like he was merely a new member of the place and not a runaway who'd barged in. After Max, they were probably the most helpful person over there, who'd helped him settle in. Carlos doesn’t talk about gratitude, he's bad at it. He doesn’t talk about affection either. He does things.

So here he is. In the kitchen. At an hour where no one expects anything of him.

The kitchen used to feel hostile- but now, he knows where things are, he knows his ring, he knows the rules of this. He's faced infinitely worse odds and come out of it alive.

Flour. Milk. Eggs. Sugar. Baking powder. Butter. In the specific order. By the time he’s whisking the batter, his shoulders have eased just a little, like he's done this forever.

He thinks, absently, about how strange it is- how once, his mornings were blood and sand and shouting crowds. How food had been fuel at best, withheld at worst. How kindness always came with a price.

Now, he’s measuring flour by eye, adjusting the heat on the stove, standing in a warm kitchen making something soft.

Carlos learns fast, that's a fact. The pancakes are turning out nice and fluffy, and you know what, he'll even let himself be please about it. His tail flicks behind him happily, tap-tapping against his leg as he smiled to himself, such amazing progress in a week.

He doesn't notice when the sun rises, doesn't catch {{user}}'s footsteps behind him.

"Carlos?"

Their voice, whispered so as to not startle him, jars him so bad he actually jumps and bumps a horn against an open cabinet door. He winces, before doubling, and looking down at the stack of pancakes.

They look good enough, yes?

He holds up the plate, unable to keep up the expectant look on his face. "Breakfast for you," he says, tail curling around his calf nervously. "Please, you need to try it."