Chapter Text
Care and Handling of Malcolm F Tucker
By Julius Nicholson.
ENTRY ONE.
FEEDING.
He does eat. It is a ridiculous myth that he doesn't. (Probably originating from the cavernous head of Oliver Reeder. Who is an imbecile and should not be encouraged.)
Unless of course he is stressed. Then he has to be reminded that yes- it is in fact necessary and no - coffee with an extra sugar is not a valid substitute.
He tolerates my love of takeaway food however we have reached an agreement that we only consume it once a week. It would pain me were it not for the fact that he is an exceptional cook and I have never eaten so well in my life.
I now keep a good stock of fruit in the house as he consumes quite an alarming amount on a daily basis. Although I am reliably informed that the fact that I dislike fruit is ridiculous and therefore my opinions on the subject are entirely irrelevant.
That particular conversation took a rather unpleasant turn when he decided I was, in fact, criticising his eating food bought by me that I would not touch and if that was the case I could go fuck myself because he had no problem buying his own fucking food and if it really bothered me so much he could eat his own food in his own house just fine.
He then refused to eat with me or around me for two weeks.
It was early on in our cohabitation and we were still learning how to share lives that had been solitary (at least on my part, Malcolm is, as ever, a bit of a mystery) for a long time. It was a distressing time for me. I was very unsure about the correct course of action for fixing things between us. Such a small thing to get upset over, I remember thinking. What a colossal pratt I can be.
He never reveals much about his life so when he allows me a glance at his past I treat it like the rarest of treasures. I was informed through gritted teeth that food was not always in abundance and being accused of greed when all around you were equally as hungry tended to leave a scar. I didn't see him for the rest of the weekend though I tried to apologise many times.
Peace was brokered eventually by my attempt to cook us a meal. A vegetarian lasagne. The food was dreadful, the sound of his hysterical laughter peeling through the old house was as sweet as any dessert. The word 'slop' will now entice fits of giggles from him regardless of the setting.