mini nanowrimo, word count 284, look avengers RPS. idek.
I wanted to write Chris Evans not being an actor or being a failed actor and then starting his own bakery. Dog bakery. IDK EITHER. I'm sorry. In my head, eventually Chris and Jeremy end up together. They get a house to flip in the Valley [that didn't used to be in porn, but maybe it did. there's a weird stain on the wall, okay?] and fall in love and East farts a lot. Chris makes good food and feeds Jeremy.
I like cooking stories.
Did I say I'm sorry yet?
Title: Sweet as Honey
Fandom: Avengers movieverse RPS
Pairing(s): Chris Evans/Jeremy Renner
Summary: It all started when East gave him that look. That Look meant, “Look, asshole. I'm not eating this crap.”
Notes: I... I wanted to write a story about Chris Evans baking things for his dog and this is what happened. I'm sorry I'm not sorry?
It all started when East gave him that look. That Look meant, “Hey, asshole. I'm not eating this crap.”
Then threw up all over the carpet that Chris had picked up from that cute antique store off of Melrose.
The colors totally clashed and Chris knew he had to do something about that.
+
To be completely truthful, East's digestive issues aside, the real start would have been when Chris got the call from his agent with the whole, “The numbers are in, kid. They don't look good. I'm sorry.”
Chris had ended the call and he had looked at his dog and said, “Well, what're we going to do now, buddy?”
East had farted and rolled over on his side.
“Yeah, I totally understand, man,” Chris rubbed his face, started coffee, and called his mom.
The order wasn't important, the coffee, however, was.
+
“I thought you were going out for that comic book thing,” his mom's voice was distracted and Chris didn't fault her for that. She'd been his stalwart supporter in everything in his life. She was allowed to get distracted by Scott's latest drama.
“Shelly didn't think it was a viable option. Like it'd tanked my career more,” Chris had said trying to get East to swallow the weird pink orange syrup the vet had prescribed him for his vomitting problem. East was not amused and Chris was really tired of stepping in orange creamsicle looking puddles in the hall, bathroom, and kitchen. “She said, and I quote, 'I don't really see these comic movies really going anywhere, kid.' and I don't know, not like I ever read one of them. How is a guy supposed to just be on fire and stay that way? And fight crime, wouldn't he just be naked by the end, like burn off all his clothes?”
“Oh, Chris.”
The exasperation is familiar and it makes him smile. “I... I think I want to go to school, Ma.”
“You were never really into -.”
“Culinary school, Ma.”
“Oh, well. Well, okay.”
Chris grinned at that. He never doubted her support, but it was still a relief. “Nonna always said I had a soft touch with animals and food.”
That made his mother laugh. “She was always telling me you cooked better than I did.”
“Your risotto is horrible, Ma,” he said breaking an apple cinnamon drop in half and bribing East with that to take the remainder of his medicine.
“Email your dad and he'll help you figure out school.” Lisa paused and Chris could see her frowning even through miles of country between them. “You sure about this, baby?”
This time it was Chris who laughed. “No, not really, but I feel like I need to change something. I'm... I'm not happy anymore.”
Lisa doesn't ask again and Chris is grateful.
He's scared, but hopeful.
It felt a lot like that moment he used to get before stepping onto a stage and under hot bright lights.
He's missed that.
+
It is Scarlett who actually taught him the art of baking. He'd been set in his ways about how to do things and how to throw things into a pot and figuring things out as he went by taste and touch and smell.
Cooking was like that. It was a familiar art of making the most of what one had and creating something that warmed and filled other people. It was what made Chris love cooking. He spent a better part of his dissolute youth living on college ramen fare, but he spent just as much time between sets and call times dreaming up the longed for tastes of baked pastas and pollo al forno. He remembered the way his grandmother would roll gnocchi down the generations old wooden paddle to drop into the water.
“Cooking is love, Chris. Baking is the more level headed cousin,” Scarlett had said and she smiled at him, flour dusting her cheek and the air smelled like cinnamon.
They were two weeks into filming the Perfect Score and Chris had found himself with a new best friend. Chris had kissed her a week ago and while pleasant they had both broken apart with a laugh and she socked him on the shoulder. “Come on, I'll show you how to make a sponge cake in the microwave if you make that Mexican hot chocolate with the chili powder for me.”
“And we'll never speak about that kiss ever again?” Chris had asked rubbing the back of his neck, skin hot and lips curving into an embarassed smile.
“What kiss?” Scarlett smirked and dragged him into the tiny kitchenette. “Let's do some food science.”
Cooking was a mish mash of tastes and textures and feelings for Chris. Baking was calmer, something that helped Chris think and plan. He hated the precision of baking and the involvement of steps needed to make sure that things came out just right.
He supposed the complicated sadism of baking was, not surprisingly, why Chris excelled and fell in love with it.
+
Chris had pawned off auditions and his agent with a very nonchalant, “I'm going to take a break and learn a new skill.”
“Career suicide, kid, but whatever. Your life, call me when you smarten up.”
Chris made agreeable noises and hung up his phone.
East barked at him and slobbered all over his hand. “Yeah, I know. I'm pretty freaked out too, buddy.”
East set his head down on Chris' knee and fell asleep.
Chris closed his eyes and fell asleep on his couch. Dog snores followed him into his dreams of candy thermometers and Silpat monsters eating his brain.
+
His Nonna Capuano was a short woman with hair that had been dark brown in her youth, but was now a snowy white. She spat out Italian and English like bullets and had her mother's Irish temper and her father's penchant for storytelling. Her favorite venue for telling tales was the old family kitchen. The Capuanos had come to America and settled in Boston years and years and a generation or two while Boston was still finding its feet into the modern age. Chris' grandfather had served in the war, but he can't remember which one or ones, and Nonna had just waved a hand at him whenever he asked.
“Young men and war are like fire and kindling, they go together and ignite, but burn one or the other out. I don't have time for those stories. Come and stir the sauce, Christopher.”
His Nonna was Catholic by birth and practice, but she was the first person that Chris came out to when he was seventeen and scared out of his mind.
He knew that without any kind of doubt that even if the Church said he was wrong, that his Nonna would love him no matter what.
He was not wrong.
“Pshh, the God and Jesus I know and follow would not want less love in the world, Christopher. So, you like women and men? I think you are maybe greedy, but as long as they love you close to how much I love you, then it makes no difference to me. Now come and taste this. I know it is perfect, but I am an old woman who likes compliments.”
She had bustled him back home with jars of marinara and with a firm, “Tell your mother before your father. Your grandfather I will sit down with a whiskey first. Stop worrying. You look like you're constipated. I will make it okay.”
And she did.
It was still a little awkward at Thanksgiving with his grandfather but it was with the same gruff awkwardness that had plagued all the Evans kids. His grandfather still gave him hugs and insulted his hair.
His father just shrugged. “Just make sure to wear a rubber either way.”
Chris thought that being mortified was getting off easier than some other stories he'd heard.
+
“Your mother tells me you're going to cooking school.”
“Yes, Nonna. I'm going to become a baker, I think. The program takes two years.”
“Good. When you are finished, I will send you some of my recipes. They stay with you and you do not share them or I will stripe your behind like the time you and Scott took my pearls and tried to slingshot rocks with them, capisce?”
“Yes, Nonna.”
“Good boy.”
+
The program took two years and two months for Chris to finish. He worked hard and if he got the occasional look of recognition from classmates or teachers, he ignored them and smiled. He smiled and shrugged each time they said they knew they knew him from somewhere.
“Just that kind of face,” Chris always said and he held up a spoon or broke off a bit of pastry. “Taste this. Too much...”
It was never too much spice or too flaky.
Distraction by food was new to Chris, but it felt nicer than a lie or a fake smile.
+
The end goal was to always open up his own shop. He knew the projections for how quickly bakeries and food businesses failed within the first two years, but he knew that it was what he needed to do. He had no idea if it would succeed or if people would even want to buy his stuff, but he had to try.
It scared him shitless, but it was a good scared.
He'd never been stupid with his money and culinary school at the trade school hadn't set him back too badly.
“I'm going to try selling stuff online and at the market for test runs.”
The etsy store was easy enough to set up. Scott was the one who actually suggested it. “I got this totally badass Batman belt buckle, but I'm pretty sure you can sell food things on it.”
Etsy was a revelation and a godsend. Chris sketched out a quick doodle for East of Eatin' and his little shop was born.
The end of the month totals for both his human and pet baked goods are enough to pay his cell and cable bill after ingredients and electric.
“I think, Ma, that I've got something here,” Chris said shaking his head looking at his Excel sheet, tired and worn out from his shift at the French bistro he'd worked at inbetween small gigs before things had picked up with the movies years ago.
Lisa laughed at him. “Of course you do, baby. Now tell me what you need.”
+
Chris had no idea that his baked goods would go over so well. He had hoped for it to go well, but he's sold out of both people and pet treats by the end of the day.
The question of where his store is located was asked so many times, Chris finally just made a sign that stated, “Help me open a storefront! Buy yourself and your four legged family member a treat today!” He added East's paw prints to the bottom and stuck it to the front of his table.
He set up a regular table at the market for a few months before he got the go ahead to start looking at places from his dad's financial planner (his Uncle Bobby).
“I think this just may work, Nonna.”
She just laughed at him and ended the call with. “When you are finally settled, you tell me and I will fly out there to season the ovens.”
+
Pasta was easy to make but it was finicky. Chris knew from years helping Nonna measure out the right amounts of flour, eggs, and salt. Oiling the bowl and letting it rest. There was a rhythm to the workings of a good pasta.
“Marry me,” Scarlett mumbled around the mouthful of red sauce and noodles. “I will marry you if you feed me like this for the rest of our natural lives, Christopher.”
Chris laughed and he poured her another half glass of wine. “I think that I'm off girls for a while.”
Scarlett made a face and poked a fork into a pile of twisted strands of fettucini and slurped loudly. He had no idea how Scarlett could still make that look sexy. “Minka really did a number on you.”
He shrugged and sipped at the rounded flavors of the Napa Valley cabernet. He didn't really want to answer, but Scarlett had a way of just waiting him out until he felt like he had to fill the silence. “She found someone better.”
“Fuck that. She found someone who would put up with her shit and do things for her.”
Chris winced at how little he could or would have done for his ex. “He's a hell of a ball player.”
Scarlett snorted. “Baseball is only good for one thing.”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “And that'd be?”
“Sports equipment that can be used as a weapon,” Scarlett said with a sunny little smile.
“You are a scary woman. Anyone ever told you that?” Chris laughed and tossed East a little bit of chicken.
“You say the sweetest things.”
“I try.”
10342 / 18000
(57.46%)
I like cooking stories.
Did I say I'm sorry yet?
Title: Sweet as Honey
Fandom: Avengers movieverse RPS
Pairing(s): Chris Evans/Jeremy Renner
Summary: It all started when East gave him that look. That Look meant, “Look, asshole. I'm not eating this crap.”
Notes: I... I wanted to write a story about Chris Evans baking things for his dog and this is what happened. I'm sorry I'm not sorry?
It all started when East gave him that look. That Look meant, “Hey, asshole. I'm not eating this crap.”
Then threw up all over the carpet that Chris had picked up from that cute antique store off of Melrose.
The colors totally clashed and Chris knew he had to do something about that.
+
To be completely truthful, East's digestive issues aside, the real start would have been when Chris got the call from his agent with the whole, “The numbers are in, kid. They don't look good. I'm sorry.”
Chris had ended the call and he had looked at his dog and said, “Well, what're we going to do now, buddy?”
East had farted and rolled over on his side.
“Yeah, I totally understand, man,” Chris rubbed his face, started coffee, and called his mom.
The order wasn't important, the coffee, however, was.
+
“I thought you were going out for that comic book thing,” his mom's voice was distracted and Chris didn't fault her for that. She'd been his stalwart supporter in everything in his life. She was allowed to get distracted by Scott's latest drama.
“Shelly didn't think it was a viable option. Like it'd tanked my career more,” Chris had said trying to get East to swallow the weird pink orange syrup the vet had prescribed him for his vomitting problem. East was not amused and Chris was really tired of stepping in orange creamsicle looking puddles in the hall, bathroom, and kitchen. “She said, and I quote, 'I don't really see these comic movies really going anywhere, kid.' and I don't know, not like I ever read one of them. How is a guy supposed to just be on fire and stay that way? And fight crime, wouldn't he just be naked by the end, like burn off all his clothes?”
“Oh, Chris.”
The exasperation is familiar and it makes him smile. “I... I think I want to go to school, Ma.”
“You were never really into -.”
“Culinary school, Ma.”
“Oh, well. Well, okay.”
Chris grinned at that. He never doubted her support, but it was still a relief. “Nonna always said I had a soft touch with animals and food.”
That made his mother laugh. “She was always telling me you cooked better than I did.”
“Your risotto is horrible, Ma,” he said breaking an apple cinnamon drop in half and bribing East with that to take the remainder of his medicine.
“Email your dad and he'll help you figure out school.” Lisa paused and Chris could see her frowning even through miles of country between them. “You sure about this, baby?”
This time it was Chris who laughed. “No, not really, but I feel like I need to change something. I'm... I'm not happy anymore.”
Lisa doesn't ask again and Chris is grateful.
He's scared, but hopeful.
It felt a lot like that moment he used to get before stepping onto a stage and under hot bright lights.
He's missed that.
+
It is Scarlett who actually taught him the art of baking. He'd been set in his ways about how to do things and how to throw things into a pot and figuring things out as he went by taste and touch and smell.
Cooking was like that. It was a familiar art of making the most of what one had and creating something that warmed and filled other people. It was what made Chris love cooking. He spent a better part of his dissolute youth living on college ramen fare, but he spent just as much time between sets and call times dreaming up the longed for tastes of baked pastas and pollo al forno. He remembered the way his grandmother would roll gnocchi down the generations old wooden paddle to drop into the water.
“Cooking is love, Chris. Baking is the more level headed cousin,” Scarlett had said and she smiled at him, flour dusting her cheek and the air smelled like cinnamon.
They were two weeks into filming the Perfect Score and Chris had found himself with a new best friend. Chris had kissed her a week ago and while pleasant they had both broken apart with a laugh and she socked him on the shoulder. “Come on, I'll show you how to make a sponge cake in the microwave if you make that Mexican hot chocolate with the chili powder for me.”
“And we'll never speak about that kiss ever again?” Chris had asked rubbing the back of his neck, skin hot and lips curving into an embarassed smile.
“What kiss?” Scarlett smirked and dragged him into the tiny kitchenette. “Let's do some food science.”
Cooking was a mish mash of tastes and textures and feelings for Chris. Baking was calmer, something that helped Chris think and plan. He hated the precision of baking and the involvement of steps needed to make sure that things came out just right.
He supposed the complicated sadism of baking was, not surprisingly, why Chris excelled and fell in love with it.
+
Chris had pawned off auditions and his agent with a very nonchalant, “I'm going to take a break and learn a new skill.”
“Career suicide, kid, but whatever. Your life, call me when you smarten up.”
Chris made agreeable noises and hung up his phone.
East barked at him and slobbered all over his hand. “Yeah, I know. I'm pretty freaked out too, buddy.”
East set his head down on Chris' knee and fell asleep.
Chris closed his eyes and fell asleep on his couch. Dog snores followed him into his dreams of candy thermometers and Silpat monsters eating his brain.
+
His Nonna Capuano was a short woman with hair that had been dark brown in her youth, but was now a snowy white. She spat out Italian and English like bullets and had her mother's Irish temper and her father's penchant for storytelling. Her favorite venue for telling tales was the old family kitchen. The Capuanos had come to America and settled in Boston years and years and a generation or two while Boston was still finding its feet into the modern age. Chris' grandfather had served in the war, but he can't remember which one or ones, and Nonna had just waved a hand at him whenever he asked.
“Young men and war are like fire and kindling, they go together and ignite, but burn one or the other out. I don't have time for those stories. Come and stir the sauce, Christopher.”
His Nonna was Catholic by birth and practice, but she was the first person that Chris came out to when he was seventeen and scared out of his mind.
He knew that without any kind of doubt that even if the Church said he was wrong, that his Nonna would love him no matter what.
He was not wrong.
“Pshh, the God and Jesus I know and follow would not want less love in the world, Christopher. So, you like women and men? I think you are maybe greedy, but as long as they love you close to how much I love you, then it makes no difference to me. Now come and taste this. I know it is perfect, but I am an old woman who likes compliments.”
She had bustled him back home with jars of marinara and with a firm, “Tell your mother before your father. Your grandfather I will sit down with a whiskey first. Stop worrying. You look like you're constipated. I will make it okay.”
And she did.
It was still a little awkward at Thanksgiving with his grandfather but it was with the same gruff awkwardness that had plagued all the Evans kids. His grandfather still gave him hugs and insulted his hair.
His father just shrugged. “Just make sure to wear a rubber either way.”
Chris thought that being mortified was getting off easier than some other stories he'd heard.
+
“Your mother tells me you're going to cooking school.”
“Yes, Nonna. I'm going to become a baker, I think. The program takes two years.”
“Good. When you are finished, I will send you some of my recipes. They stay with you and you do not share them or I will stripe your behind like the time you and Scott took my pearls and tried to slingshot rocks with them, capisce?”
“Yes, Nonna.”
“Good boy.”
+
The program took two years and two months for Chris to finish. He worked hard and if he got the occasional look of recognition from classmates or teachers, he ignored them and smiled. He smiled and shrugged each time they said they knew they knew him from somewhere.
“Just that kind of face,” Chris always said and he held up a spoon or broke off a bit of pastry. “Taste this. Too much...”
It was never too much spice or too flaky.
Distraction by food was new to Chris, but it felt nicer than a lie or a fake smile.
+
The end goal was to always open up his own shop. He knew the projections for how quickly bakeries and food businesses failed within the first two years, but he knew that it was what he needed to do. He had no idea if it would succeed or if people would even want to buy his stuff, but he had to try.
It scared him shitless, but it was a good scared.
He'd never been stupid with his money and culinary school at the trade school hadn't set him back too badly.
“I'm going to try selling stuff online and at the market for test runs.”
The etsy store was easy enough to set up. Scott was the one who actually suggested it. “I got this totally badass Batman belt buckle, but I'm pretty sure you can sell food things on it.”
Etsy was a revelation and a godsend. Chris sketched out a quick doodle for East of Eatin' and his little shop was born.
The end of the month totals for both his human and pet baked goods are enough to pay his cell and cable bill after ingredients and electric.
“I think, Ma, that I've got something here,” Chris said shaking his head looking at his Excel sheet, tired and worn out from his shift at the French bistro he'd worked at inbetween small gigs before things had picked up with the movies years ago.
Lisa laughed at him. “Of course you do, baby. Now tell me what you need.”
+
Chris had no idea that his baked goods would go over so well. He had hoped for it to go well, but he's sold out of both people and pet treats by the end of the day.
The question of where his store is located was asked so many times, Chris finally just made a sign that stated, “Help me open a storefront! Buy yourself and your four legged family member a treat today!” He added East's paw prints to the bottom and stuck it to the front of his table.
He set up a regular table at the market for a few months before he got the go ahead to start looking at places from his dad's financial planner (his Uncle Bobby).
“I think this just may work, Nonna.”
She just laughed at him and ended the call with. “When you are finally settled, you tell me and I will fly out there to season the ovens.”
+
Pasta was easy to make but it was finicky. Chris knew from years helping Nonna measure out the right amounts of flour, eggs, and salt. Oiling the bowl and letting it rest. There was a rhythm to the workings of a good pasta.
“Marry me,” Scarlett mumbled around the mouthful of red sauce and noodles. “I will marry you if you feed me like this for the rest of our natural lives, Christopher.”
Chris laughed and he poured her another half glass of wine. “I think that I'm off girls for a while.”
Scarlett made a face and poked a fork into a pile of twisted strands of fettucini and slurped loudly. He had no idea how Scarlett could still make that look sexy. “Minka really did a number on you.”
He shrugged and sipped at the rounded flavors of the Napa Valley cabernet. He didn't really want to answer, but Scarlett had a way of just waiting him out until he felt like he had to fill the silence. “She found someone better.”
“Fuck that. She found someone who would put up with her shit and do things for her.”
Chris winced at how little he could or would have done for his ex. “He's a hell of a ball player.”
Scarlett snorted. “Baseball is only good for one thing.”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “And that'd be?”
“Sports equipment that can be used as a weapon,” Scarlett said with a sunny little smile.
“You are a scary woman. Anyone ever told you that?” Chris laughed and tossed East a little bit of chicken.
“You say the sweetest things.”
“I try.”
10342 / 18000
(57.46%)