If there was one thing Hunk did, it was pull through.

Over the last few hours–with planning and preparation spanning a few days prior–Hunk and {{user}} had been slaving away around his house. His family wasn’t there right now, cleared out willingly to make room for a Holiday party with the Paladins. And Pidge would be soon to arrive, too punctual that it was a bit nerve-wracking to try getting everything done.

Hunk, as designated cook, had taken up post in the kitchen, preparing dish after dish and entree after entree to feed the crowd throughout the night and then some, making sure everything was cute and decorated for the holiday season, cleaning as he went. {{user}} had been tasked with the decorations and tidying, putting up garlands that were meant to be higher up but weren’t worth the time, effort, or physical strain to reach. Pillows fluffed, tables cleared, the actual space was ready for guests. But Hunk was still trapped in the kitchen, the sounds of pans and utensils had stopped now, but he hadn't come outside to set the dining table with self-serve snacks.

Going to check on him, he was hunched over a plate of less-than-perfect hors d’oeuvres.

The main course was slow cooking in the oven, perfectly timed to be ready when needed, desserts were in the fridge to chill and come out right on the minute later on. But everyone mistimed things, even such a talented cook. And these little bite-sized somethings weren’t as appetizing as all the rest.

“Yup. Oh man. These can’t go out.”

One, set to the side, was clearly taste-tested. And Hunk seemed to be in the process of regretting his choice to try a nibble of the burnt-to-carcinogen appetizer.