Giles, In His Kitchen, With a Potato Masher - BtVS - PG-13 - Faith/Giles
Title: Giles, In His Kitchen, With a Potato Masher
Author: Vesica
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Faith/Giles implied
Disclaimer: Just a bit of mucking about in other people’s sandboxes. I don’t own them.
Summary: A not-so-surprising look into Faith’s thought process regarding the world of traditional British cuisine.
Author’s Note: Written for antennapedia’s Rupertus Domesticus Ficathon.
The challenge? Write something inspired by this:
And so I did - twice. :P
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
His front door banged open and Faith came waltzing in.
“Another night, another spectacular display of bad-assery by yours truly,” Faith smirked, rounding the corner to the kitchen. “Smells good in here. Whatcha doin’?”
Giles didn’t look up from the saucepan of mashed potatoes he had sitting on hotpads in the sink. “Cooking, obviously. Thought you might be hungry. Patrol went well?”
“Awesome! The urge to cook should strike more often while I’m out walking the dark, cold, lonely streets of Sunnydale.”
Faith took a seat on the counter next to him and reached into the pan, hooking lump of potato. She popped it in her mouth, only to fan frantically as the potato seared her tongue. “Hot!”
She chewed carefully, sucking in little puffs of cool air, and managed to swallow the scalding bit. “Needs salt and butter. And yeah - patrol was fine. Vamps - 0, Good Guys - 6.”
Giles rummaged in the fridge for the butter and cream. “They aren’t done yet.”
He cut a few pats of butter from the stick and pushed them off the knife blade and into the pot and added a hefty splash of cream.
Faith watched him work the melting butter and cream into the potatoes, before pausing to add salt and pepper. “So - we having bangers and mash?”
Giles looked up from whipping the potatoes. “Do you even know what bangers and mash is?”
Faith shrugged and stole another scoop of potatoes. “Nope - no idea. I just like saying it. Bangers and Mash, Bangers and mash - rolls off the tongue nicely.”
His eyebrows raised and she went ahead and answered the unvoiced question. “Plus, it sounds dirty, like it should have something to do with sex.”
He gave her a look - that look - the one that said she really needed to grow out of that one-track mind, but she just rolled her eyes.
“What? It totally does! Actually a lot of your weird English food does. I mean, Toad in a Hole? What the heck is that about?”
She tried to steal another scoop of potato but Giles smacked her hand and moved the saucepan to the rangetop.
“Whole island of pervs if you ask me…There was another one…Oh! Bubble and squeak. I have no clue what that stuff is, but it totally sounds kinky to me.”
“I am sure you are the only one who thinks British cuisine sounds suggestive,” Giles opened the oven door and fished out a large platter covered in foil.
“Suggestive?” Faith snorted and gave him an incredulous look. “You people have something called Spotted Dick…Yeah, I doubt it’s just me.”
Giles smiled. Quite a few things sounded different to his ears after so much time around American slang, particularly Faith’s varied and colorful slang. “Point taken.”
He pulled the foil back to reveal a carved roasted chicken, surrounded by a carrots and onion wedges.
“Hot damn, Giles!” Faith hopped off the counter and pulled a few plates from the cabinet behind her.
“You approve?” Giles found the silverware and handed a set to Faith, stepping aside to let her fix her plate.
Faith snatched a drumstick and a wing, skirting the vegetables entirely.
Giles gave a loud “ahem” and she gave in, turning to stick her tongue out at him before adding a few carrots and onions to her plate and topping it all off with a large spoonful of mashed potatoes.
She flashed a cheeky grin and leaned over as Giles was fixing his plate and kissed his cheek. “Keep this up and I’m going to send the Council a “sorry for telling you to go fuck yourselves and the horse you rode in on” fruit basket and nominate you for Watcher of the Year.”
With a firm swat to his rear, she went and sat down her plate on the table.
He called after her, “Somehow, I don’t think the Watcher’s Council is too happy with me or either of you right now.”
He heard her rummaging around in the living room as he set his plate down and returned to the kitchen to pour them each a glass of water.
“Just because you let Buffy go to college. I mean, by their timetable she should be dead, not matriculating. Can’t imagine why she wasn’t keen on that plan.” She rounded the corner just as he reached the table, a tumbler of scotch on the rocks in each hand.
She handed him one and ignored his raised brow at the second glass.
“What? I wasn’t going to drink it with dinner. I know better than that,” she smiled, deliberately ignoring his actual objection.
“Besides - twenty-one in a month. Who cares if it’s a little early?” she shrugged, taking a seat and sitting the scotch next to the glass of water he’d poured her.
She picked up the drumstick and took a large bite. “I think they just have their tighty-whiteys in a jealous wad because they don’t have a Slayer in their bed.”
Giles laughed, “I’m not sure jealous is what they’d be if they knew about that.”
Faith batted her eyes innocently. “But they should be. Right?”
She would probably be the death of him yet, but if you had to go, he couldn’t think of a better way than trying out whatever new thing Faith’s agile mind had dreamed up. “That they should. Now eat before it gets cold.”
Faith dutifully ate and the table was silent for a few minutes.
She pushed her empty plate away with a happy sigh and went to work on the scotch, studying Giles as he ate. “So - Watcher of the Year, what’s for dessert? Because I might have a few new ideas.”
END.
Author: Vesica
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Faith/Giles implied
Disclaimer: Just a bit of mucking about in other people’s sandboxes. I don’t own them.
Summary: A not-so-surprising look into Faith’s thought process regarding the world of traditional British cuisine.
Author’s Note: Written for antennapedia’s Rupertus Domesticus Ficathon.
The challenge? Write something inspired by this:
And so I did - twice. :P
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
His front door banged open and Faith came waltzing in.
“Another night, another spectacular display of bad-assery by yours truly,” Faith smirked, rounding the corner to the kitchen. “Smells good in here. Whatcha doin’?”
Giles didn’t look up from the saucepan of mashed potatoes he had sitting on hotpads in the sink. “Cooking, obviously. Thought you might be hungry. Patrol went well?”
“Awesome! The urge to cook should strike more often while I’m out walking the dark, cold, lonely streets of Sunnydale.”
Faith took a seat on the counter next to him and reached into the pan, hooking lump of potato. She popped it in her mouth, only to fan frantically as the potato seared her tongue. “Hot!”
She chewed carefully, sucking in little puffs of cool air, and managed to swallow the scalding bit. “Needs salt and butter. And yeah - patrol was fine. Vamps - 0, Good Guys - 6.”
Giles rummaged in the fridge for the butter and cream. “They aren’t done yet.”
He cut a few pats of butter from the stick and pushed them off the knife blade and into the pot and added a hefty splash of cream.
Faith watched him work the melting butter and cream into the potatoes, before pausing to add salt and pepper. “So - we having bangers and mash?”
Giles looked up from whipping the potatoes. “Do you even know what bangers and mash is?”
Faith shrugged and stole another scoop of potatoes. “Nope - no idea. I just like saying it. Bangers and Mash, Bangers and mash - rolls off the tongue nicely.”
His eyebrows raised and she went ahead and answered the unvoiced question. “Plus, it sounds dirty, like it should have something to do with sex.”
He gave her a look - that look - the one that said she really needed to grow out of that one-track mind, but she just rolled her eyes.
“What? It totally does! Actually a lot of your weird English food does. I mean, Toad in a Hole? What the heck is that about?”
She tried to steal another scoop of potato but Giles smacked her hand and moved the saucepan to the rangetop.
“Whole island of pervs if you ask me…There was another one…Oh! Bubble and squeak. I have no clue what that stuff is, but it totally sounds kinky to me.”
“I am sure you are the only one who thinks British cuisine sounds suggestive,” Giles opened the oven door and fished out a large platter covered in foil.
“Suggestive?” Faith snorted and gave him an incredulous look. “You people have something called Spotted Dick…Yeah, I doubt it’s just me.”
Giles smiled. Quite a few things sounded different to his ears after so much time around American slang, particularly Faith’s varied and colorful slang. “Point taken.”
He pulled the foil back to reveal a carved roasted chicken, surrounded by a carrots and onion wedges.
“Hot damn, Giles!” Faith hopped off the counter and pulled a few plates from the cabinet behind her.
“You approve?” Giles found the silverware and handed a set to Faith, stepping aside to let her fix her plate.
Faith snatched a drumstick and a wing, skirting the vegetables entirely.
Giles gave a loud “ahem” and she gave in, turning to stick her tongue out at him before adding a few carrots and onions to her plate and topping it all off with a large spoonful of mashed potatoes.
She flashed a cheeky grin and leaned over as Giles was fixing his plate and kissed his cheek. “Keep this up and I’m going to send the Council a “sorry for telling you to go fuck yourselves and the horse you rode in on” fruit basket and nominate you for Watcher of the Year.”
With a firm swat to his rear, she went and sat down her plate on the table.
He called after her, “Somehow, I don’t think the Watcher’s Council is too happy with me or either of you right now.”
He heard her rummaging around in the living room as he set his plate down and returned to the kitchen to pour them each a glass of water.
“Just because you let Buffy go to college. I mean, by their timetable she should be dead, not matriculating. Can’t imagine why she wasn’t keen on that plan.” She rounded the corner just as he reached the table, a tumbler of scotch on the rocks in each hand.
She handed him one and ignored his raised brow at the second glass.
“What? I wasn’t going to drink it with dinner. I know better than that,” she smiled, deliberately ignoring his actual objection.
“Besides - twenty-one in a month. Who cares if it’s a little early?” she shrugged, taking a seat and sitting the scotch next to the glass of water he’d poured her.
She picked up the drumstick and took a large bite. “I think they just have their tighty-whiteys in a jealous wad because they don’t have a Slayer in their bed.”
Giles laughed, “I’m not sure jealous is what they’d be if they knew about that.”
Faith batted her eyes innocently. “But they should be. Right?”
She would probably be the death of him yet, but if you had to go, he couldn’t think of a better way than trying out whatever new thing Faith’s agile mind had dreamed up. “That they should. Now eat before it gets cold.”
Faith dutifully ate and the table was silent for a few minutes.
She pushed her empty plate away with a happy sigh and went to work on the scotch, studying Giles as he ate. “So - Watcher of the Year, what’s for dessert? Because I might have a few new ideas.”
END.