Downton Abbey Comment Ficathon

[dollsome]

With the new season upon us, and fandom all extra-enthusiastic, I figured now would be a great time for this. Because there can never be enough Downton Abbey fic, and there certainly isn't enough now!

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Robert/Cora –- Why the Earl of Grantham should never be allowed into his own kitchen -- Pt: 1

[hacash]

Robert stood there - rather pathetically, it has to be said, under the circumstances - and attempted to look manly and unafraid under the wilting stare of his wife. Behind the open door he could almost hear the servants gawping. Even Carson was unabashedly hovering. Only the loving (read: stern, arch, foretelling all sorts of doom and destruction to be wrecked upon his miserable person) gaze of his wife didn’t falter. After a few moments he attempted to raise the frying pan up to his chest, in the hope of utilising it as a very small and very sticky shield.

After a moment Cora spoke - rather concisely, considering much of her person was besplattered by thick, errant pancake batter. “Mrs Hughes fetched me, Robert.”

Talk as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. This sounded good.

“Really, dear? Probably best.”

“She seemed to think something unusual was going on.”

“Oh, nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”

Narrowed eyes. “Robert.”

“Yes dear?”

“I’m waiting, Robert.”

Alright. So in hindsight, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to shoo Mrs Patmore out of her own kitchen with hearty, reassuring comments like ‘I’ve been to Oxford! Well, I’ve visited it anyway - really, how hard can it be?’ and ‘These carving knives don’t look that sharp anyway!’. Moreover, perhaps asking someone how to actually light a fire on the gas cooker, but he was certain those scorch marks all over the walls would be seen too with some soap and water and maybe a lick of paint. And yes, once he looked back and reviewed the situation sensibly it would be fair to say that tossing pancakes, while most enjoyable fun, should be confined to the professional and not the amateur. And the amateur most definitely should not toss the pancakes sky-high with an enthusiastic cry of ‘tally-ho!’ (he’d been getting rather into it), only to see said pancake swoop gracefully through the air and land with an audible ‘sper-lott!’ straight on the head of the next person who entered the kitchen.

Which was Cora.

But it was their anniversary! Their proper, wonderful, twenty-first anniversary! Surely in the circumstances a fellow could be permitted to go into his own kitchen and make his wife breakfast for their proper, wonderful twenty-first anniversary?

Apparently not.

“I smelled smoke, my lady,” Mrs Hughes put in helpfully as Robert opened and shut his mouth. “A lot of smoke.”

“Ah,” Robert said proudly, “that would be these wonderful, new almond croissants that I had imported from Paris.” He gestured to the sad little lumps of charcoal that crouched reproachfully at the bottom of the oven - lacking a baking tray on which to balance, as he hadn't thought one was needed.

Cora’s brow arched.

“…Or it was, anyway.”

He brightened up.

“And I tried to make you a pot of tea!”

Cora and the servants looked at the swamp-like pools of water all over the kitchen floor.

“Did you not think to take the kettle off the fire once it started boiling over?” Mrs Patmore wanted to know once this particular debacle had been explained.

The Earl of Downton frowned. “I thought that was part of the water-boiling process! I assumed you servants…I don’t know, mopped it all up into the teapot when it was finished!”

Several snorts came from the vicinity of the doorway. Loud snorts.

“Is there anything else?”

He opened his mouth and shut it again. Oh yes, plenty, but nothing that he would care to relive again save in his darkest, deepest nightmares. Robert Crawley was not by nature a cowardly man, but the recollections of the Egg and Bacon Incident would most likely have him on his knees before his wife, face pressed into her, pleading for her never ever to let him set foot in the kitchen again.