[fic] Cohabitation {SESSION VIII: Recipe for Disaster}
Title: Cohabitation
Author: alstair
Pairing: Ichigo x Ishida Uryuu
Rating: G
Warnings: boylove, silliness
Summary: Living/rooming together is no walk in the park
Disclaimer: Kubo Tite owns Bleach and the characters of Bleach
Second part of the grand two-part update: Session VIII of Cohabitation (the first update was Limit {Part II: Consummation} ). And despite how I titled this particular session, this chapter isn't angsty (or at least I don't think it is). Anyway, enjoy! :D
SESSION I: Arrival
SESSION II: Bed Space, Living Space
SESSION III: Boxers and Pajamas
SESSION IV: Teabags and Remedies
SESSION V: Artistic Endeavors
SESSION VI: Unpacking
SESSION VII: Housewarming
SESSION VIII: Recipe for Disaster
So why again was he doing this?
Ichigo looked at the brown knobbly and mutilated mass of ginger on the counter and wrinkled his brows. How the hell was he supposed to cook when he'd never even so much as boiled his own rice?
Still, he couldn't say no, could he? Not when the Quincy who'd given him the impossible task had simply left him a note that said "Cook dinner. Be back at seven" and was nowhere to be found.
...Almost as if the Quincy was avoiding him.
To make matters worse, his head felt like it had been through a mill with the hangover he had.
Of course, it had been a slight blessing that Yuzu had slipped in a small cooking guide into the things he'd had sent over. At least he had some sort of recipe to go by. But guide or no guide, he was just as likely to toast the kitchen as he was to roast the beef.
And if that happened, well, he wouldn't just have to deal with a very bitchy Ishida.
So he'd picked up the knife and tried to actually dice the ginger he was supposed to dice. Except instead of dicing the yellow root into small equal cubes he'd simply managed to mash it or cut it into very irregular shapes he'd never seen in a proper dish before. And the way the gravy refused to gel mocked him with the fact he'd missed out on the cornstarch.
So, he had no talent to be a cook. So what? He wasn't going to die just because he couldn't fry fish or make miso soup. And they'd gotten through Inoue's whatever-it-was-called dish last night, right? So what was slightly burned meat, runny gravy, and adulterated sauteed ginger compared to that?
Which made him think maybe something had happened last night to make the Quincy levy such an ordeal when Ishida knew full well Ichigo was hopeless in the kitchen, having suffered through one of his dishes not two days ago. But other than Inoue's isane combination of ingredients and the line "...and Matsu-sensei has this really funny habit of blinking three times very quickly when we can't answer the question," he remembered zero of what had happened during the course of the party when he woke up at three in the afternoon.
It was almost seven. He'd ask Ishida when the Quincy came back--in less than half an hour.
Ichigo sighed. The prospects of having a decent and uneventful dinner were slim to none.
And to hell with saying home-cooked meals were the fastest way to a man's heart. Chinese take-out was looking better and better by the minute.
Author: alstair
Pairing: Ichigo x Ishida Uryuu
Rating: G
Warnings: boylove, silliness
Summary: Living/rooming together is no walk in the park
Disclaimer: Kubo Tite owns Bleach and the characters of Bleach
Second part of the grand two-part update: Session VIII of Cohabitation (the first update was Limit {Part II: Consummation} ). And despite how I titled this particular session, this chapter isn't angsty (or at least I don't think it is). Anyway, enjoy! :D
SESSION I: Arrival
SESSION II: Bed Space, Living Space
SESSION III: Boxers and Pajamas
SESSION IV: Teabags and Remedies
SESSION V: Artistic Endeavors
SESSION VI: Unpacking
SESSION VII: Housewarming
SESSION VIII: Recipe for Disaster
So why again was he doing this?
Ichigo looked at the brown knobbly and mutilated mass of ginger on the counter and wrinkled his brows. How the hell was he supposed to cook when he'd never even so much as boiled his own rice?
Still, he couldn't say no, could he? Not when the Quincy who'd given him the impossible task had simply left him a note that said "Cook dinner. Be back at seven" and was nowhere to be found.
...Almost as if the Quincy was avoiding him.
To make matters worse, his head felt like it had been through a mill with the hangover he had.
Of course, it had been a slight blessing that Yuzu had slipped in a small cooking guide into the things he'd had sent over. At least he had some sort of recipe to go by. But guide or no guide, he was just as likely to toast the kitchen as he was to roast the beef.
And if that happened, well, he wouldn't just have to deal with a very bitchy Ishida.
So he'd picked up the knife and tried to actually dice the ginger he was supposed to dice. Except instead of dicing the yellow root into small equal cubes he'd simply managed to mash it or cut it into very irregular shapes he'd never seen in a proper dish before. And the way the gravy refused to gel mocked him with the fact he'd missed out on the cornstarch.
So, he had no talent to be a cook. So what? He wasn't going to die just because he couldn't fry fish or make miso soup. And they'd gotten through Inoue's whatever-it-was-called dish last night, right? So what was slightly burned meat, runny gravy, and adulterated sauteed ginger compared to that?
Which made him think maybe something had happened last night to make the Quincy levy such an ordeal when Ishida knew full well Ichigo was hopeless in the kitchen, having suffered through one of his dishes not two days ago. But other than Inoue's isane combination of ingredients and the line "...and Matsu-sensei has this really funny habit of blinking three times very quickly when we can't answer the question," he remembered zero of what had happened during the course of the party when he woke up at three in the afternoon.
It was almost seven. He'd ask Ishida when the Quincy came back--in less than half an hour.
Ichigo sighed. The prospects of having a decent and uneventful dinner were slim to none.
And to hell with saying home-cooked meals were the fastest way to a man's heart. Chinese take-out was looking better and better by the minute.