FIC: Pelmeni (G)ashen_keyAugust 18 2012, 13:46:00 UTC
Natasha hadn't had a chance to play in her new kitchen since she moved in. No sooner had she and Clint finished unloading the boxes in their apartment than her work phone started to ring, and off she had gone to Montreal for a month.
But she was back, and she had a few days off, so one Thursday, she'd woken up and decided to cook. She'd christen her kitchen with pelmeni, because whatever Clint had been cooking while she'd been away didn't count.
He turned up around lunchtime. Unexpectedly, as he'd driven off to the San Diego office that morning.
“Hey?” Natasha called out, leaning back to peer around the half-walls at the entrance without moving from the kitchen counter.
“Hey,” Clint said, and she could hear the quiet thump of shoes coming off. As he walked into view, she raised her eyebrows at him slightly, but he just shrugged and walked over to her. He stood behind her, put his hands on her hips and rested his head against the back of hers for a long moment.
Silence, then. She could roll with that, and she continued to fold the pastries and press them shut with her fingers.
“What you making?” Clint asked at last, having shifted so he can watch her hands.
“Pelmeni. Make a large quantity, freeze them in batches,” she said, changing her hand movements to cut out another circle of pastry dough. “You've caught me in the process of doing it properly.”
“You can cheat?”
“You can cheat,” Natasha agreed, and gestured with her head towards her dumpling mold sitting unused on the counter. “That thing makes twenty-four at once. I'll cheat later,” she added with a quick smile.
“How do you make them?” he asked, and it was more than curiosity in his voice. There was a question, a request for calm and steady and harmless words to fill the air.
“They're fairly simple, just time-consuming,” Natasha said, and started to explain about fillings and pork and garlic. By the time she was talking about peppercorns and oil in the water, she was fairly certain he wasn't listening to the actual words at all.
But she was back, and she had a few days off, so one Thursday, she'd woken up and decided to cook. She'd christen her kitchen with pelmeni, because whatever Clint had been cooking while she'd been away didn't count.
He turned up around lunchtime. Unexpectedly, as he'd driven off to the San Diego office that morning.
“Hey?” Natasha called out, leaning back to peer around the half-walls at the entrance without moving from the kitchen counter.
“Hey,” Clint said, and she could hear the quiet thump of shoes coming off. As he walked into view, she raised her eyebrows at him slightly, but he just shrugged and walked over to her. He stood behind her, put his hands on her hips and rested his head against the back of hers for a long moment.
Silence, then. She could roll with that, and she continued to fold the pastries and press them shut with her fingers.
“What you making?” Clint asked at last, having shifted so he can watch her hands.
“Pelmeni. Make a large quantity, freeze them in batches,” she said, changing her hand movements to cut out another circle of pastry dough. “You've caught me in the process of doing it properly.”
“You can cheat?”
“You can cheat,” Natasha agreed, and gestured with her head towards her dumpling mold sitting unused on the counter. “That thing makes twenty-four at once. I'll cheat later,” she added with a quick smile.
“How do you make them?” he asked, and it was more than curiosity in his voice. There was a question, a request for calm and steady and harmless words to fill the air.
“They're fairly simple, just time-consuming,” Natasha said, and started to explain about fillings and pork and garlic. By the time she was talking about peppercorns and oil in the water, she was fairly certain he wasn't listening to the actual words at all.
She didn't mind.
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And Natasha cooks a lot in my head for some reason, so I'm glad someone else enjoys it.
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