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When Pangzi walks through Wushanju’s back door, all the lights are off, and something is definitely burning. He reaches for his belt and realizes he left the emergency explosives back at his apartment—not that those would necessarily add anything to this situation, fight fire with fire being true in the metaphorical sense only. (He would know, he’s tried.)
“Tianzhen,” he calls, moving further into the living space tucked behind the shop. “Xiao Ge?”
There’s no response, but a muffled rustling sound comes from one of the back rooms. Creeping forward, Pangzi readies himself to face any one of the foes the Iron Triangle have encountered in their years together, or perhaps all of them at once: venomous snakes and jade tomb warriors and rival grave robbers. It wouldn’t be the first time their line of work has shown up on their doorstep to haunt them.
There’s a thump from what should be the dining room, and a muffled curse—Tianzhen. Pangzi starts to call out again, and then thinks better of it. Maybe the mysterious assailants have him tied up, and are waiting to do the same to Pangzi. But if that’s the case, then why haven’t they gone ahead and attacked already? And where the hell is Xiao Ge?
As soon as he enters the dining room, the lights flash on, and two figures jump out at him. Still adjusting to the sudden brightness, Pangzi grabs the nearest thing he can find—which happens to be a bowl of cucumber salad—and on instinct swings it at the shape nearest him. Too late, he sees Xiao Ge jump in front of Wu Xie—Wu Xie—and knock the dish to the floor. Chopped vegetables spill everywhere, and Wu Xie groans.
“We spent all afternoon putting this together.”
And slowly it dawns on Pangzi that there are no attackers to be thwarted, no old enemies holding his partners hostage. That voicemail from Tianzhen—Pangzi, we’re at Wushanju, come as quick as you can—had been a lure, and it had worked entirely too well. He heaves a put upon sigh.
“What is it this time?”
Weakly, Wu Xie gestures at the table behind him, which Pangzi has only just registered is laden with a full array of supper dishes like the one he just sent flying. “Surprise?”
Xiao Ge claps them both on the back, and then holds out a broom.
Five hours earlier, in one of Wushanju’s storerooms.
The lights are dimmed, and Zhang Qiling stands off to the side, watching as Wu Xie fiddles absentmindedly with his clipboard, on the verge of speaking. For once, he’d volunteered to do inventory himself, instead of making Wang Meng do it like usual. This was suspicious, but not outside the realm of ordinary possibility. The fact that he then voluntold Zhang Qiling to come help, though, means he must be scheming something.
As expected, when Wu Xie finally opens his mouth, his first words are: “Xiao Ge, I’ve been thinking.”
Historically, most of Wu Xie’s most dangerous ideas start out that way, but Zhang Qiling trusts him enough to hear him out.
“Pangzi always likes to cook when he comes over here, doesn’t he?”
Zhang Qiling nods—Pangzi’s cooking is one of his favorite things about Wushanju. The smell of a warm meal and the shop’s backrooms have become inextricably linked together in his mind, floating to the surface of his memory even when nothing else sticks.
“Well—
For a moment, Wu Xie falters, as though doubting their ability to pull off whatever plan he’s concocted. That can’t be a good sign. He recovers himself quickly, however, and continues.
“I thought it might be nice if we try cooking for him, for a change.”
Zhang Qiling considers the suggestion. It’s true that they could probably do something to show Pangzi how much they appreciate his meals other than scarfing them down at breakneck speed and then racing off again, but he doesn’t remember the last time he saw Wu Xie cook something for himself. And for his part, Zhang Qiling isn’t sure he remembers how to cook anymore, or if he ever learned in the first place.
“Listen.” The look in Wu Xie’s eyes shows he can sense Zhang Qiling’s doubt—that special Iron Triangle telepathy—and is searching for the right angle. “Pangzi keeps a few of his favorite cookbooks back in the kitchen. We can just follow those. How hard can it be?”
All the years of following Wu Xie through whatever trials are thrown at the three of them have left Zhang Qiling suspicious that it might turn out to be very hard indeed. Even so, when he pictures the face Pangzi will make when he walks into the kitchen and sees the dinner they’ve cooked for him—affection winning out over the usual fond exasperation—the possibility of a few mistakes along the way doesn’t seem so bad. How much trouble could they really get into?
(Maybe it’s best not to answer that question.)
Wu Xie hasn’t said anything else, still waiting for Zhang Qiling’s response. There are traces of apprehension lingering in his expression, and Zhang Qiling realizes he must have been considering the idea for a while now. That settles it. If it’s important to Wu Xie, and to Pangzi, then it’s important to him, too. He tries to smile, even if it’s only with his eyes, and knows that Wu Xie will understand he really means it.
“Okay,” he says.
The grin that breaks out across Wu Xie’s face isn’t confined to just his eyes, but after all, that’s one of the things Zhang Qiling loves about him.
About an hour into their cooking session, Wu Xie begins to think he might have made a mistake.
In the beginning, everything was going surprisingly well. He and Xiao Ge had picked out a few recipes they thought Pangzi would like (okay, that they would like) from one of the cookbooks on the shelf in the kitchen. They’d gone to buy groceries, gotten sidetracked by an antique theft, and made it back to the shop with their limbs and produce still intact.
Now that they’re actually preparing the food, however, the plan is beginning to unravel.
The first warning sign should have been when Pangzi’s cookbooks turned out to have a rather “measure from the heart” approach to proportions, and a “follow your gut instinct” take on instructions. And while both Wu Xie’s heart and gut have seen him through more than a few close scrapes throughout his tomb raiding career, it seems his luck does not extend to the kitchen. Xiao Ge, meanwhile, has been doing more eating than cooking.
Speaking of which—
“Hey, cut it out, we need that for later.”
Wu Xie swipes the bottle of huangjiu from Xiao Ge, who’s been sneaking tiny sips when he thinks Wu Xie isn’t looking. It’s supposed to be for braising the pork, but he’s been using it to wash down handfuls of the mixed nuts and dried plums he’d slipped into their grocery basket at the last minute. Not even attempting to look guilty, he pops another handful of nuts into his mouth. Wu Xie sighs.
“This isn’t working. We need a new plan of attack.”
He surveys the countertops, piled high with mixing bowls, grocery bags, and cutting boards crowded with ingredients in various stages of preparation. The Dongpo pork still needs to finish braising over the stove, and they haven’t even started on the fish. It all resembles some sort of carnage.
Turning away from the chaos, Wu Xie takes a deep breath. “We can think our way around this if we try. Hand me those cookbooks again.”
Xiao Ge obliges, and Wu Xie flips aimlessly through the recipes, fervently hoping for a sudden stroke of inspiration. As he lands on a two-page photospread, Xiao Ge puts a hand on his wrist, and Wu Xie takes a closer look at the table pictured.
It might not be anything remarkable to most people, but the centerpiece instantly brings him back to one of the earliest meals the three of them ever shared together, right after their first archaeological tour as a team. Pangzi, complaining about Wu Xie’s perennial stinginess when it came to meals, had strongarmed them into visiting an out-of-the-way restaurant near the lakeshore, passed over by tourists for its more glamorous neighbors. They’d eaten the best steamed buns and fried shrimp Wu Xie has tasted to this day, huddled around a tiny table decorated with a jar of wildflowers just like the one in the picture, squinting in the dim light of the candles lining the room. Despite the cramped quarters and ad-hoc décor, there was something romantic about the scene.
In other words: if Wu Xie and Xiao Ge can’t cook a meal quite as delicious as that, they can at least manufacture some ambiance.
“The garden across the street,” Xiao Ge says, as though he’s been thinking the same thing. “One of us could ask…”
“One of us” turns out to be Wu Xie, who drags Xiao Ge along with him as he reluctantly asks the auntie down the block if they can pilfer a few of her flowers. She manages to send them both home with an armful each, along with a container full of leftover egg tarts from the stall she runs, and it’s only when they get home that Wu Xie realizes they didn’t give her anything in return.
The afternoon is growing later, and the sun has begun to dip lower on the horizon. Armed with their decorations, it’s time to get down to business.
They divide up the remaining tasks between the pair of them, and as they set to work, Wu Xie allows his mind to wander.
Sitting in that hole-in-the-wall restaurant, right here in Hangzhou, would he ever have imagined that the three of them might one day come to share home-cooked meals, too? That the “home” those meals belonged to felt like it fit him now more than ever with two new pairs of footsteps on each side?
Even as their bond in the tombs grew stronger, when it came to taking any steps outside that professional context, they were tentative at first. It’s amazing how you can fight side-by-side with a person, come to trust them with your life, and still not entirely trust that they’ll say yes when you ask them to dinner.
(Of course, in the early days, Pangzi’s main complaint was always that he was not asked to dinner—or more specifically, that Wu Xie, known cheapskate, didn't buy it for him.)
Wu Xie still remembers the time they were out on one of their more chaotic missions, crouched around a fire in some northern cave and waiting for rescue. That night, he’d finally dared to ask what had been on his mind almost since the three of them met. In his memory, the scene is dim, comfortable, wreathed in the warm glow and flickering shadows cast by the flames. By the time he got up the courage to speak, it was Xiao Ge’s turn to sleep, curled up between the pair of them, arm around Pangzi and head on Wu Xie’s shoulder.
He didn't say much at all, really. Only: "I think I like this."
Amused, Pangzi glanced over at him. “Being stuck in a cave until the heavy artillery can come bail us out?”
Wu Xie gestured pointedly at the three of them. “This.”
Pangzi glanced away, and his heart stuttered. For the first time in years, his voice had trouble finding its way out of his throat.
“Do you think—would you like it if we did this more? Stayed together, I mean. Not just when we’re exploring tombs.”
Gaze still focused on the fire, Pangzi slowly stretched out a hand, laying it atop Wu Xie’s. Wu Xie allowed himself to feel a small surge of victory.
“Is that your answer, then?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?”
Pangzi leaned back. “I’m on your side, now. Both of you. I’ll have your backs, no matter what it takes.”
His tone was grudging, but he cracked a grin all the same. “You’re not getting rid of me, so you’d better feed me well.”
Now, Wu Xie thinks, they’re finally making good on that promise.
A burning scent rouses him from his recollections.
“The pork.”
Xiao Ge points, and Wu Xie realizes it’s starting to smoke.
“Damn.”
Hastily, he lifts the pan from the heat, but the smell still lingers in the air. At least the meat doesn’t look too charred—maybe salvageable, if they scrape part of it off.
He ends up doing exactly that while Xiao Ge sets the table. Mercifully, the fish looks alright, and Xiao Ge has produced a perfectly acceptable bowl of rice from the rice cooker, so they’ll have at least half a meal to serve. As Xiao Ge finishes laying out the vegetable dishes, Wu Xie gives Pangzi a call.
The phone goes to voicemail, and Wu Xie remembers that he’s probably been in meetings with some of their business associates all day. Maybe he’ll be exhausted enough he won’t even care if the food tastes bad.
“Pangzi, we’re at Wushanju, come as quick as you can.”
He injects an extra layer of urgency into his tone—they don’t want the food to get cold, and Pangzi will pull out all the stops if he thinks there might be trouble brewing. Satisfied that they’ve somehow managed to avoid total disaster, he turns back to Xiao Ge to finish planning the surprise.
Once they hear the slam of a car door outside, they rush to turn off the lights and hide in the kitchen. Having come to the conclusion that they'll jump out at Pangzi when he enters, they stand together in total silence. Only they never have the chance to enact that part of the plan—Pangzi jumps first. And as Wu Xie sees the cucumber salad go crashing to the floor, even if the bowl doesn't shatter, his last remaining shred of dignity for the day does.
Tianzhen and Xiao Ge staunchly refused to let him help clean up, so Pangzi sits at the dinner table and watches as they sweep.
“Remind me why you thought it was a good idea to make me think you were in some kind of danger to get me over here so quickly?”
Wu Xie opens his mouth to retort, glances down at a stray slice of cucumber on the floor, and promptly closes it again.
He’s silent, too, as they start eating. So is Xiao Ge, though that’s less unusual. The pair of them look so dejected that Pangzi gives up on being grumpy, takes a bite of pork, and says, “Hey, this isn’t bad.”
“We burned it,” Wu Xie mumbles.
Pangzi shrugs. “Adds flavor.”
Xiao Ge pushes the fish towards him, and the next few minutes are spent eating and ego-soothing in equal measure. Gradually, the atmosphere relaxes. Wu Xie and Pangzi begin swapping their usual taunts, and Xiao Ge breaks his silence long enough to insert the occasional razor-sharp comment. The indignity of his earlier entrance aside, Pangzi feels gratitude sweep over him. Tianzhen and Xiao Ge’s efforts might be amateur, but altogether the meal really does taste alright, made infinitely better by the fact that it was cooked especially for him. They’ve gone all out with the decorations, too: a tablecloth swiped from the cabinet of nicer linens, garnished with fresh flowers. Full and satisfied, Pangzi sets his chopsticks down and puts his hands behind his head.
“All things considered,” he says, “you didn’t burn the kitchen down, and no one got injured, so I’d call tonight a success.”
Wu Xie snorts, though he looks pleased, and even Xiao Ge gives what might be the hint of a smile. But then Wu Xie’s face grows solemn.
“Pangzi,” he begins, “I know we don’t say it often, but we appreciate everything you do for us.”
Xiao Ge gives a fervent nod of agreement, and Wu Xie continues.
“Maybe sometimes we think being able to communicate without words means we don’t need to use them at all. But Xiao Ge and I wanted this meal, at least, to show the way we care about you, even if it didn't turn out exactly how we planned.”
“I see you care enough to spill vinegar on one of my favorite cookbooks,” Pangzi teases, and Wu Xie blanches.
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
“Now that’s a promise I know you won’t keep.”
Before Wu Xie can get too dejected again, Pangzi leans across the table to take his hand, and on his other side laces Xiao Ge’s fingers together with his own. Even now, touch is a language they’re still figuring out together—an act of affection that, like cooking, takes practice. There’s nothing wrong with that. As gratifying as it is to have found two people who understand him better than anyone else, Pangzi likes that they always have more to learn about each other. The warmth of what he’s learned tonight glows in his chest.
The food might not have turned out the way its would-be chefs hoped, and the smell of smoke still lingers in the room. It’s thirty-two degrees and the air conditioner is broken. The chair he’s sitting in needs fixing too. All the same, Pangzi thinks, this might be as close to perfection as he’ll come in this lifetime.
“Tianzhen. Xiao Ge.” He looks at them both seriously, twin expressions of affection backlit by the glare of the lamp on the counter, haloed in soft light. “You know I’ll keep caring for you as long as I can. You don’t need to make me a meal to earn that, but I appreciate it anyway. I really mean that.”
He pauses, and then smiles wide. “But next time, for your safety and mine, please just let me do the cooking.”