Off the Boat (8b/?)
anonymous
November 28 2010, 01:13:50 UTC
It takes him a while to read, and Lithuania has to sound out some words aloud, much to his embarrassment; luckily, no one is around to hear him. The units of measurement are completely foreign to him - cups, teaspoons, and tablespoons are traded with pots, mugs, and buckets. Lithuania realizes they are the King's measurements and borrowed directly from England. Does America realize how much he still uses from England?
Half the recipes are credited as French or Italian. A few are German, and one is even supposed to be Russian. Are these really American foods? He loses track of the hour trying to find something he can make with the canned foods he found in the pantry that morning or the fresh onions, broccoli, and peppers in the refrigerator until he finally finds a dish so simple it only takes a paragraph to describe how to make it: a chicken-broccoli casserole. The only thing he's uncertain of is the curry powder, but if America has hot peppers Lithuania can grate something like it.
He checks the kitchen and finds everything he needs present, which relieves him, but over the course of preparing the meal the anxiety of America's happy-go-lucky lack of instruction creeps up on him. Does America prefer his chicken skinless? He has both chicken breast and legs and thighs in the refrigerator, but does he prefer white or dark meat? The recipe could probably serve four people but Lithuania remembers how much food America ate during his light dinner last night and prepares it accordingly anyway. Does America want the food to be spicy? He seems to have a sweet tooth. He almost forgoes the curry powder. Does it matter if the bread crumbs aren't Stove Top breadcrumbs?
In the end Lithuania takes the skin off the chicken, cringing at the waste, but it will only make the casserole chewy, and otherwise follows the recipe. What else can he do? The measuring cups take all the uncertainty of the measurements off his mind except for the 'stick of butter'. What is a stick of butter? But when he finds America's butter in the refrigerator he finds out, marveling at the literal stick of butter wrapped in wax paper.
He leaves the back door open while he cooks to let out the hot air from the stove. The smell of the food as he cooks reminds him that he hasn't eaten since last night, but he doesn't have time to take a break for a snack now - if he could even figure out what snack foods he could eat. After sauteing the chicken in vegetable oil, mixing the dressing, and throwing the whole thing into the oven, he hastily cleans up after himself, not about to present America with a messy kitchen on his first day of work.
America comes home when the sun is low in the sky, ten minutes after Lithuania pulled the casserole out of the oven to cool and while he's drying the measuring cups. Lithuania congratulates himself on his timing. "Welcome home."
"Hey, Lietuva!" America whirls in, breathless, tossing his suit jacket over one kitchen chair. "How'd you enjoy your first full day in my house?" He grins.
Lithuania gives the correct answer. "It was excellent, thank you." He hesitates, his mind flashing to the joke he didn't understand that morning (he should try to understand it in case America tries it again. Or laugh convincingly, at least), but the thought is brief and he continues, "Your garden is amazing."
America's chest puffs out like a proud child. "Thanks! I really like growing stuff. These days groceries are so cheap I don't really need to grow my own food, but I couldn't resist a little gardening. It's - well, it's my roots. And a lot of people still do it." Throughout this America is unbuttoning his collar, loosening his necktie, and mussing his hair, clearly striving to look as casual as possible while still in formal clothes.
Off the Boat (8c/?)
anonymous
November 28 2010, 01:15:56 UTC
He sniffs the air and cranes his neck. "The kitchen smells great. What'd you make?" he asks.
Lithuania abruptly realizes he's been unconsciously shielding the pan of casserole from America's view. He steps back hastily. "I attempted a chicken-broccoli casserole," he says, giving the name of the dish in English. "I've never prepared anything like this before, so I don't know how it turned out. I meant to try it before you came home, but ..."
He trails off before nerves can make him stutter, because America is frowning. Lithuania licks his lips and takes a small step back, putting himself between America and the door to the garden without quite realizing it. He drops his gaze and curses himself inwardly, even though he's not sure what he's done wrong. Maybe America hates casserole. How was I to know!? But it's just like when he first arrived at Russia's house: the only way to learn is by trial and error, and taking his lumps until he gets it right. "I'm sorry," he says on reflex.
"What're you sorry for?" America asks, his tone so honestly confused that Lithuania snaps his gaze back up. America is giving him a perplexed look, brows drawn together and up in apparent worry. "I - you used the cookbooks, even though they're in English! I'm just really surprised! You know a lot more English than you let on, don't you?" His face clears as he says these things, returning slowly to a customary grin. "That's incredible!"
It takes about half of this speech for Lithuania to realize he's being complimented. Flabbergasted, he manages, "W-well, don't praise me until you've tasted it!" Then he laughs out of relieved nerves.
America reaches up into a cabinet and pulls down two plates, apparently oblivious when Lithuania weakly puts up a hand to forestall him (he should be the one serving dinner). "I was expecting you'd made something - I dunno, Lithuanian," America is saying, retrieving a metal spatula and starting to cut apart the casserole. "But now that I'm thinking about it, I probably don't have any of the ingredients." He shovels the food onto one plate, then the other, and takes them both to the table. "Hey, you remember where the cups are? Can you pour me some orange juice? You can drink that or milk or water, that's all I've got - oh, wait, there's the last of the wine!" America puts down the plates and picks up the bottle. "Do you want it?"
Please no, Lithuania thinks, and says, "You should drink it, since France gifted it to you," and he hides his head in the refrigerator while finding the orange juice (which like many things, comes pre-packaged. This particular carton says NO PULP on it).
"Guess so," America says. Lithuania fills two glasses with orange juice because he's curious what it tastes like with no orange pulp in it, and sees America has left the bottle where it is. "Later. It doesn't go with orange juice."
Tonight America sits without hesitation, saving Lithuania the embarrassment of waiting for him, and like the night before America prays for God to bless this food in Jesus' name amen while Lithuania crosses himself. Unlike last night America completely ignores Lithuania's prayer. Once again Lithuania waits patiently for America to take the first bite, apprehension chewing at his stomach.
America beams at him. "This is really good! How'd you know I don't like the chicken skin?"
Lithuania manages to keep his sigh of relief under his breath. He takes a bite off his own plate (as he thought from the recipe, the mayonnaise is a little overwhelming) and thinks maybe America isn't as mysterious as I give him credit for.
"Let's try speaking in English all night tonight," America proposes. "So you can practice."
Lithuania swallows hard, and just like that the discomfort is back, turning his stomach. "All right," he says in English, sharply aware of his accent.
"Just tell me if I'm speaking too fast. I do that a lot," America replies in the same language. "But you're smart. Before you know it you'll be speaking English just as well as Lithuanian!"
What if I don't want to? Lithuania thinks desperately, but he smiles and says, "That is kind of you to say," and wishes fervently and briefly that he was Poland.
author note/thank you/i don't even know/midpoint?
anonymous
November 28 2010, 01:17:04 UTC
So another part that grew out of control. Er. I swear all this 'the same thing over and over emotional porn blaaaaaah' stuff is over. Onwards to resolution! Or something like that.
Thanks for sticking with me! I'm sorry this is so tedious.
Re: author note/thank you/i don't even know/midpoint?
anonymous
November 28 2010, 03:07:56 UTC
Authoranon please marry me, this is so fantastic. At least let me have constant visiting rites to this fic. It's so wonderful. Oh poor Lithuiana (fail!spelling is all the rage), this puts a whole new spin on the outsourcing/clean out the closet comics. On one hand it's like, yay, he gets over everything. On the other hand it's like, well, at least they're able to function when Lith. knows all the 'rules'.
Now I'm off to eat icecream and have a little cry.
Re: author note/thank you/i don't even know/midpoint?
anonymous
November 28 2010, 04:50:14 UTC
authro!annon, thank YOU//I/ don't even know/i certanly HOPE it's not midpoint yet.
I LOVE this. And I'm kind of sad the emotional porn is ending... i like it. You do this so well, and i'm [stalking] enjoying this like you wouldn't believe.
I can't wait to see what happens next, ooh, I want to hug Liet and tell him it'll be ok so much...
(labors dicison- Does Lithuania have something to decide in the next chapter, reCaptcha?)
Re: author note/thank you/i don't even know/midpoint?
anonymous
November 28 2010, 05:35:58 UTC
If this is what "growing out of control" is, then I'm running off with your fanfic shears. Seriously, this is one of the best fills I've read, and the character interactions, even though you're currently working with just two of them, flows so naturally and in-character and feels... well, human.
*holds out plate* Another helping of tedium, please? <3
Half the recipes are credited as French or Italian. A few are German, and one is even supposed to be Russian. Are these really American foods? He loses track of the hour trying to find something he can make with the canned foods he found in the pantry that morning or the fresh onions, broccoli, and peppers in the refrigerator until he finally finds a dish so simple it only takes a paragraph to describe how to make it: a chicken-broccoli casserole. The only thing he's uncertain of is the curry powder, but if America has hot peppers Lithuania can grate something like it.
He checks the kitchen and finds everything he needs present, which relieves him, but over the course of preparing the meal the anxiety of America's happy-go-lucky lack of instruction creeps up on him. Does America prefer his chicken skinless? He has both chicken breast and legs and thighs in the refrigerator, but does he prefer white or dark meat? The recipe could probably serve four people but Lithuania remembers how much food America ate during his light dinner last night and prepares it accordingly anyway. Does America want the food to be spicy? He seems to have a sweet tooth. He almost forgoes the curry powder. Does it matter if the bread crumbs aren't Stove Top breadcrumbs?
In the end Lithuania takes the skin off the chicken, cringing at the waste, but it will only make the casserole chewy, and otherwise follows the recipe. What else can he do? The measuring cups take all the uncertainty of the measurements off his mind except for the 'stick of butter'. What is a stick of butter? But when he finds America's butter in the refrigerator he finds out, marveling at the literal stick of butter wrapped in wax paper.
He leaves the back door open while he cooks to let out the hot air from the stove. The smell of the food as he cooks reminds him that he hasn't eaten since last night, but he doesn't have time to take a break for a snack now - if he could even figure out what snack foods he could eat. After sauteing the chicken in vegetable oil, mixing the dressing, and throwing the whole thing into the oven, he hastily cleans up after himself, not about to present America with a messy kitchen on his first day of work.
America comes home when the sun is low in the sky, ten minutes after Lithuania pulled the casserole out of the oven to cool and while he's drying the measuring cups. Lithuania congratulates himself on his timing. "Welcome home."
"Hey, Lietuva!" America whirls in, breathless, tossing his suit jacket over one kitchen chair. "How'd you enjoy your first full day in my house?" He grins.
Lithuania gives the correct answer. "It was excellent, thank you." He hesitates, his mind flashing to the joke he didn't understand that morning (he should try to understand it in case America tries it again. Or laugh convincingly, at least), but the thought is brief and he continues, "Your garden is amazing."
America's chest puffs out like a proud child. "Thanks! I really like growing stuff. These days groceries are so cheap I don't really need to grow my own food, but I couldn't resist a little gardening. It's - well, it's my roots. And a lot of people still do it." Throughout this America is unbuttoning his collar, loosening his necktie, and mussing his hair, clearly striving to look as casual as possible while still in formal clothes.
Reply
Lithuania abruptly realizes he's been unconsciously shielding the pan of casserole from America's view. He steps back hastily. "I attempted a chicken-broccoli casserole," he says, giving the name of the dish in English. "I've never prepared anything like this before, so I don't know how it turned out. I meant to try it before you came home, but ..."
He trails off before nerves can make him stutter, because America is frowning. Lithuania licks his lips and takes a small step back, putting himself between America and the door to the garden without quite realizing it. He drops his gaze and curses himself inwardly, even though he's not sure what he's done wrong. Maybe America hates casserole. How was I to know!? But it's just like when he first arrived at Russia's house: the only way to learn is by trial and error, and taking his lumps until he gets it right. "I'm sorry," he says on reflex.
"What're you sorry for?" America asks, his tone so honestly confused that Lithuania snaps his gaze back up. America is giving him a perplexed look, brows drawn together and up in apparent worry. "I - you used the cookbooks, even though they're in English! I'm just really surprised! You know a lot more English than you let on, don't you?" His face clears as he says these things, returning slowly to a customary grin. "That's incredible!"
It takes about half of this speech for Lithuania to realize he's being complimented. Flabbergasted, he manages, "W-well, don't praise me until you've tasted it!" Then he laughs out of relieved nerves.
America reaches up into a cabinet and pulls down two plates, apparently oblivious when Lithuania weakly puts up a hand to forestall him (he should be the one serving dinner). "I was expecting you'd made something - I dunno, Lithuanian," America is saying, retrieving a metal spatula and starting to cut apart the casserole. "But now that I'm thinking about it, I probably don't have any of the ingredients." He shovels the food onto one plate, then the other, and takes them both to the table. "Hey, you remember where the cups are? Can you pour me some orange juice? You can drink that or milk or water, that's all I've got - oh, wait, there's the last of the wine!" America puts down the plates and picks up the bottle. "Do you want it?"
Please no, Lithuania thinks, and says, "You should drink it, since France gifted it to you," and he hides his head in the refrigerator while finding the orange juice (which like many things, comes pre-packaged. This particular carton says NO PULP on it).
"Guess so," America says. Lithuania fills two glasses with orange juice because he's curious what it tastes like with no orange pulp in it, and sees America has left the bottle where it is. "Later. It doesn't go with orange juice."
Tonight America sits without hesitation, saving Lithuania the embarrassment of waiting for him, and like the night before America prays for God to bless this food in Jesus' name amen while Lithuania crosses himself. Unlike last night America completely ignores Lithuania's prayer. Once again Lithuania waits patiently for America to take the first bite, apprehension chewing at his stomach.
America beams at him. "This is really good! How'd you know I don't like the chicken skin?"
Lithuania manages to keep his sigh of relief under his breath. He takes a bite off his own plate (as he thought from the recipe, the mayonnaise is a little overwhelming) and thinks maybe America isn't as mysterious as I give him credit for.
"Let's try speaking in English all night tonight," America proposes. "So you can practice."
Lithuania swallows hard, and just like that the discomfort is back, turning his stomach. "All right," he says in English, sharply aware of his accent.
"Just tell me if I'm speaking too fast. I do that a lot," America replies in the same language. "But you're smart. Before you know it you'll be speaking English just as well as Lithuanian!"
What if I don't want to? Lithuania thinks desperately, but he smiles and says, "That is kind of you to say," and wishes fervently and briefly that he was Poland.
tbc
Reply
Thanks for sticking with me! I'm sorry this is so tedious.
Reply
Don't worry, dear highly-talented author!anon, we love this fill as it is. And thank you for writing this and especially for updating daily.
Reply
Reply
I love all the small details and everything just alsfjkasl;fkj
I'm glad you're writing this, and like above anon said, we love the fill. =D
Reply
Now I'm off to eat icecream and have a little cry.
Reply
I LOVE this. And I'm kind of sad the emotional porn is ending... i like it. You do this so well, and i'm [stalking] enjoying this like you wouldn't believe.
I can't wait to see what happens next, ooh, I want to hug Liet and tell him it'll be ok so much...
(labors dicison- Does Lithuania have something to decide in the next chapter, reCaptcha?)
Reply
Reply
*holds out plate* Another helping of tedium, please? <3
Reply
Leave a comment