Cooking: It's in your Hands [1/3]
anonymous
May 25 2009, 15:14:58 UTC
"Mon dieu, how does he live like this!?"
He cringes at the way his few beautiful French words sound as they're offered in a rough voice. He's regrets teasing Arthur for his French in the past, if only because he could see it wasn't entirely his fault.
Francis turns off the stove, moves the frying pan off the glowing scarlet element and sidles, as slow as a sloth, to the kitchen table. He collapses into his usual seat.
He morbidly stares at the crepe batter he'd been intending to cook, as it sits on the sink. The batter looks pleasant; it's smooth, creamy and is the most perfect colour. He's made it as he always has.
Then his emerald eyes glance at the monstrosity sitting innocently the plate in front of him. There was a small triangular slice missing from it; the place he'd tasted his creation. He glowers at it. His child, it won't be best in show this evening. He mourns it's very existence.
He goes through the recipe again. Mentally ticking boxes as he follows the ingredient list and ends with, "serve warm or allow to cool". How can something be done so right - to the utmost milligram - still taste worse than Alfred's plastic hamburgers? He's been wondering for days now.
But he's doing himself no good sitting there, thinking about his woes in the kitchen. Francis lets his mind wander to what his body - with Arthur in it - is doing. Has it been used for Arthur's devilish deeds? Has he used his body, tasted just a bit of what it would be like with him (Francis knows he had, during his first night as Arthur. He'd even managed to find a mirror up in the Englishman's creepy attic)? Has he fulfilled his dirtiest desires, content that his actions will be mistaken for Francis' own? He has always been in denial about his wanting to try on at least one piece of lingerie (who wouldn't, when they were so exquisitely made?). Hopefully the French blood flowing through Francis' body's veins will inject some romantic wisdom into Arthur's dim mind.
The phone rings, loudly and shrilly. Francis jumps slightly, nearly falling out of the chair whilst doing so, and reaches for the phone. Usually he's able to reach it easily, if he hooks his foot around the table's leg and bends expertly. The bench isn't too far away. However, try as he might, Arthur's short limbs don't go the distance his own do.
His finger tips graze the cool plastic of the phone. He nearly falls off the chair before the telephone goes silent.
Francis feels his - Arthur's - cheeks heat up. It's all that hoodlum's fault! If he hadn't been playing with his 'magic' again, Francis wouldn't be standing in Arthur's kitchen, trying not to cry in front of a little, sadistic person (who is a figment of his imagination; fairies only exist in stories - hence why he's been ignoring her), who seems to be laughing at his misfortune as he rights himself. And the man doubts he'll be able to take another visit from Alfred; two is quite enough (especially because both were within twelve hours of each other). And where he's quite pleasant towards Francis in his own body, he's unbearably drab whilst he's in Arthur's.
Francis can't take much more of this. He's been stuck in Arthur's wretched, little body for two days now, and he's just about ready to throw himself off a bridge (or eat his own - he feels the need to weep again - cooking. He doubts it will end too differently, and it saves his having to risk people seeing him suffer - he won't give them the satisfaction).
Francis scowls down at his toes. They're clad in white, fluffy slippers. This has gone on long enough; he's starting to become as grumpy as Arthur.
Cooking: It's in your Hands [2/3]
anonymous
May 25 2009, 15:29:48 UTC
It's then that the phone starts shrieking again and Francis lurches for it.
"Goo-" He starts, before he realises he's supposed to be Arthur. He clears his throat, and lets his best English accent flow with his words, "Hullo?"
"Francis?" His own voice answers him - it's quite odd hearing it, "That was the worst British accent I've ever heard."
"Yes, yes, so you keep telling me - though your French accent is nightmarish also. What are you calling for?"
He owns a very pleasant laugh.
"My scones are perfect!" Arthur proclaims proudly, "You can't deny it this time; I've had Antonio and Gilbert taste them. They asked for seconds!"
Francis feels his - Arthur's - mouth drop open, "P-Pardon?"
Oh, please, don't let it be true! He'll never hear the end of it! And it isn't fair! He's the one that cooks! He's the one that has fashion sense and can cut hair with the best of them! Arthur's only supposed to sit with his tea and his crumpets, play with his wand and sail the seven seas!
"You heard me, git! My. Cooking. Is. Bloody. Brilliant."
All is silent on Francis' end, as Arthur smooshes his victory in Francis' face as though it were a harmless cream filled pie. But it isn't and Francis is extremely confused. There is no logic in their situation. Doesn't one's cooking generate from skill and passion, not from whose body one is in?
"Arthur, please, act like an adult. What would Ludwig say?" He eventually chides, when he feels the beginnings of a headache creeping upon him.
Arthur deepens his voice obnoxiously, "'Francis, we are here to do work, not compare cooking methods. Please sit down.'"
Francis fights off the urge to smack his head against a wall; obviously the man has infiltrated his wine cabinet. He sends a small prayer to the heavens, whispered under his breath. Perhaps this is a long and very detailed nightmare? He had had vol au vonts before bed three nights ago...
"When will we return to our bodies?"
Arthur falls silent for a moment. Then he clucks his tongue and says quietly, "I can't do anything. I don't have any magic anymore. You're going to have to ask Honeylemon if she and the others can change us back."
"Arthur," Francis says as he smiles mockingly, "I have told you before. There are no such things as fai- Ow! That was my eye, you beast!"
Francis' cheeks light up as he hears Arthur's - his - warming, quiet chuckle slide through the phone.
"She just threw her slipper at you, didn't she?"
"What? No. Of course not."
He hisses and swats at the fly buzzing around his shoulders. Now really, this is ridiculous! Figments of one's imagination did not poke one with toothpicks.
"Francis? Are you still there?"
"Yes, yes, please, continue."
He reaches up, aiming to smooth his hair, but finds it short and messy. He misses his body.
"You're going to have to cooperate with them. I'm not letting you try anything - you'll most likely attempt something beyond your limitations and yourself into a frog."
Francis is offended. It isn't like Arthur doesn't do the exact same thing all the time. If he's to make a fool of himself, Arthur should at least let him have a little fun.
"If we're lucky, she'll know the reversal spell by heart. If she does, all we'll need to do is stand beside each other and poof! You can go back to being a git in France and I can enjoy my scotch - you better not have touched it."
Francis lets his eyes linger on the fiery headed girl glaring up at him from the bench as he replies, "I am not keen on your alcohol, cheri, you know that."
"Good. Ring me if there's any progress. Good bye, Francis."
Then, before he can protest, a dull beep pounds at his ear drums. He places the phone back in its holder.
It is time to compare his options. Either he can have a conversation with a very small, flying person (if worst comes to worst, he'll start believing she's real) or several more days as Arthur (which doesn't limit himself to bad food, frequent visits from Alfred and being stalked by a raging little girl who seems content to glare at him for the entire time he's there).
Cooking: It's in your Hands [3/3]
anonymous
May 25 2009, 15:40:29 UTC
He feels deep blue eyes burning into his - Arthur's - forehead. They're fiery and quite frightening. He supposes half an hour of pleasant chatter is better than even one more hour in Arthur's body. He's sure many people think of him as crazy anyway (they'd heard about his Christmas run - including the tale of his appreciating Ivan's skin).
Francis swallows, steels his pride and smiles in a way he hopes appears charming, bowing slightly with his left hand outstretched, "Good afternoon, mon cherie. I must say you look lovely this evening." Such sweet words sound very weird coming out of Arthur's mouth, in Arthur's voice, but Francis doesn't let himself get distracted.
The fairy scowls - remarkably, a lot like Arthur does - and huffs. Her voice is as tiny as the rest of her.
"Don't think you can charm me, mister!" She says with a waggle of her tiny finger, "I know what you've done to poor Arthur all these years. Pervert."
Francis doesn't receive a chance to protect his good name; Honey is still talking.
"I know Arthur said to ask, but he seems to be having a good time. He won't mind using your body for a bit longer. You, however," She narrows her eyes and plants her hands on her hips.
Francis feels a chill creep up his spine. It seems to freeze his insides one organ at a time.
"You are going to have to do everything I say. Or else."
------
My theory on Arthur's cruddy cooking: The magic in his body kills food.
The basis for my theory: Has anyone heard of a pleasant tasting potion? Or at least seen what witches and wizards stereotypically put in their potions?
I'm sure that this isn't what you wanted, OP. For which I apologise. However, you did inspire me.
Re: Cooking: It's in your Hands [3/3]
anonymous
May 26 2009, 04:49:17 UTC
This anon thinks your theory must be true! Its hard to imagine someone who loves cooking as much as Arthur does being horrible at it without some other reason for it.
Re: Cooking: It's in your Hands [3/3]
anonymous
May 26 2009, 22:52:32 UTC
Please please PLEASE write more! This is just too much fun, and there´s so much I want to see- how things are going with Alfred? And Ludwig? And how´s Arthur coping with not seeing his magical friends? This is so cool and well written and I´m loving it!
(assuming he can´t see them in France´s body. I´m not sure)
He cringes at the way his few beautiful French words sound as they're offered in a rough voice. He's regrets teasing Arthur for his French in the past, if only because he could see it wasn't entirely his fault.
Francis turns off the stove, moves the frying pan off the glowing scarlet element and sidles, as slow as a sloth, to the kitchen table. He collapses into his usual seat.
He morbidly stares at the crepe batter he'd been intending to cook, as it sits on the sink. The batter looks pleasant; it's smooth, creamy and is the most perfect colour. He's made it as he always has.
Then his emerald eyes glance at the monstrosity sitting innocently the plate in front of him. There was a small triangular slice missing from it; the place he'd tasted his creation. He glowers at it. His child, it won't be best in show this evening. He mourns it's very existence.
He goes through the recipe again. Mentally ticking boxes as he follows the ingredient list and ends with, "serve warm or allow to cool". How can something be done so right - to the utmost milligram - still taste worse than Alfred's plastic hamburgers? He's been wondering for days now.
But he's doing himself no good sitting there, thinking about his woes in the kitchen. Francis lets his mind wander to what his body - with Arthur in it - is doing. Has it been used for Arthur's devilish deeds? Has he used his body, tasted just a bit of what it would be like with him (Francis knows he had, during his first night as Arthur. He'd even managed to find a mirror up in the Englishman's creepy attic)? Has he fulfilled his dirtiest desires, content that his actions will be mistaken for Francis' own? He has always been in denial about his wanting to try on at least one piece of lingerie (who wouldn't, when they were so exquisitely made?). Hopefully the French blood flowing through Francis' body's veins will inject some romantic wisdom into Arthur's dim mind.
The phone rings, loudly and shrilly. Francis jumps slightly, nearly falling out of the chair whilst doing so, and reaches for the phone. Usually he's able to reach it easily, if he hooks his foot around the table's leg and bends expertly. The bench isn't too far away. However, try as he might, Arthur's short limbs don't go the distance his own do.
His finger tips graze the cool plastic of the phone. He nearly falls off the chair before the telephone goes silent.
Francis feels his - Arthur's - cheeks heat up. It's all that hoodlum's fault! If he hadn't been playing with his 'magic' again, Francis wouldn't be standing in Arthur's kitchen, trying not to cry in front of a little, sadistic person (who is a figment of his imagination; fairies only exist in stories - hence why he's been ignoring her), who seems to be laughing at his misfortune as he rights himself. And the man doubts he'll be able to take another visit from Alfred; two is quite enough (especially because both were within twelve hours of each other). And where he's quite pleasant towards Francis in his own body, he's unbearably drab whilst he's in Arthur's.
Francis can't take much more of this. He's been stuck in Arthur's wretched, little body for two days now, and he's just about ready to throw himself off a bridge (or eat his own - he feels the need to weep again - cooking. He doubts it will end too differently, and it saves his having to risk people seeing him suffer - he won't give them the satisfaction).
Francis scowls down at his toes. They're clad in white, fluffy slippers. This has gone on long enough; he's starting to become as grumpy as Arthur.
Reply
"Goo-" He starts, before he realises he's supposed to be Arthur. He clears his throat, and lets his best English accent flow with his words, "Hullo?"
"Francis?" His own voice answers him - it's quite odd hearing it, "That was the worst British accent I've ever heard."
"Yes, yes, so you keep telling me - though your French accent is nightmarish also. What are you calling for?"
He owns a very pleasant laugh.
"My scones are perfect!" Arthur proclaims proudly, "You can't deny it this time; I've had Antonio and Gilbert taste them. They asked for seconds!"
Francis feels his - Arthur's - mouth drop open, "P-Pardon?"
Oh, please, don't let it be true! He'll never hear the end of it! And it isn't fair! He's the one that cooks! He's the one that has fashion sense and can cut hair with the best of them! Arthur's only supposed to sit with his tea and his crumpets, play with his wand and sail the seven seas!
"You heard me, git! My. Cooking. Is. Bloody. Brilliant."
All is silent on Francis' end, as Arthur smooshes his victory in Francis' face as though it were a harmless cream filled pie. But it isn't and Francis is extremely confused. There is no logic in their situation. Doesn't one's cooking generate from skill and passion, not from whose body one is in?
"Arthur, please, act like an adult. What would Ludwig say?" He eventually chides, when he feels the beginnings of a headache creeping upon him.
Arthur deepens his voice obnoxiously, "'Francis, we are here to do work, not compare cooking methods. Please sit down.'"
Francis fights off the urge to smack his head against a wall; obviously the man has infiltrated his wine cabinet. He sends a small prayer to the heavens, whispered under his breath. Perhaps this is a long and very detailed nightmare? He had had vol au vonts before bed three nights ago...
"When will we return to our bodies?"
Arthur falls silent for a moment. Then he clucks his tongue and says quietly, "I can't do anything. I don't have any magic anymore. You're going to have to ask Honeylemon if she and the others can change us back."
"Arthur," Francis says as he smiles mockingly, "I have told you before. There are no such things as fai- Ow! That was my eye, you beast!"
Francis' cheeks light up as he hears Arthur's - his - warming, quiet chuckle slide through the phone.
"She just threw her slipper at you, didn't she?"
"What? No. Of course not."
He hisses and swats at the fly buzzing around his shoulders. Now really, this is ridiculous! Figments of one's imagination did not poke one with toothpicks.
"Francis? Are you still there?"
"Yes, yes, please, continue."
He reaches up, aiming to smooth his hair, but finds it short and messy. He misses his body.
"You're going to have to cooperate with them. I'm not letting you try anything - you'll most likely attempt something beyond your limitations and yourself into a frog."
Francis is offended. It isn't like Arthur doesn't do the exact same thing all the time. If he's to make a fool of himself, Arthur should at least let him have a little fun.
"If we're lucky, she'll know the reversal spell by heart. If she does, all we'll need to do is stand beside each other and poof! You can go back to being a git in France and I can enjoy my scotch - you better not have touched it."
Francis lets his eyes linger on the fiery headed girl glaring up at him from the bench as he replies, "I am not keen on your alcohol, cheri, you know that."
"Good. Ring me if there's any progress. Good bye, Francis."
Then, before he can protest, a dull beep pounds at his ear drums. He places the phone back in its holder.
It is time to compare his options. Either he can have a conversation with a very small, flying person (if worst comes to worst, he'll start believing she's real) or several more days as Arthur (which doesn't limit himself to bad food, frequent visits from Alfred and being stalked by a raging little girl who seems content to glare at him for the entire time he's there).
Reply
Francis swallows, steels his pride and smiles in a way he hopes appears charming, bowing slightly with his left hand outstretched, "Good afternoon, mon cherie. I must say you look lovely this evening." Such sweet words sound very weird coming out of Arthur's mouth, in Arthur's voice, but Francis doesn't let himself get distracted.
The fairy scowls - remarkably, a lot like Arthur does - and huffs. Her voice is as tiny as the rest of her.
"Don't think you can charm me, mister!" She says with a waggle of her tiny finger, "I know what you've done to poor Arthur all these years. Pervert."
Francis doesn't receive a chance to protect his good name; Honey is still talking.
"I know Arthur said to ask, but he seems to be having a good time. He won't mind using your body for a bit longer. You, however," She narrows her eyes and plants her hands on her hips.
Francis feels a chill creep up his spine. It seems to freeze his insides one organ at a time.
"You are going to have to do everything I say. Or else."
------
My theory on Arthur's cruddy cooking: The magic in his body kills food.
The basis for my theory: Has anyone heard of a pleasant tasting potion? Or at least seen what witches and wizards stereotypically put in their potions?
I'm sure that this isn't what you wanted, OP. For which I apologise. However, you did inspire me.
I await other, better fills~~~
Reply
Reply
It's so amusing seeing Arthur living it out in Francis' body after always bad mouthing him. Anxious for the next part!
Reply
Reply
Reply
LOL, I loved this so much. xD Poor Francis...♥;
Reply
Reply
Reply
This. In my head I saw Francis being all 'oh no he didn't' with Arthur bringing up the double whammy of cooking well and hanging out with his besties.
Reply
Love for this fill Writer!Anon!! Much love!
Reply
(assuming he can´t see them in France´s body. I´m not sure)
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment