[Fic] La Cocina
Title: La Cocina
Author/Artist: subakai
Prompt: The gist of it was they decide to meet up and get along. England still tsun-tsun & cynical & Spain still cheerful and & sweet self. I lost the actual prompt.
Pairings: England/Spain
Rating/Warnings: PG
Summary: England decides fix the bad rap his cooking has gotten. He decides Spain is going to help.
It was because of Canada that it all happened. When dear, sweet, gentle Canada said he’d rather skip out on dinner and “W-why don’t we go out to eat instead?” England knew he had to do something. That was the last straw. England could brush off France’s and America’s insults to his cuisine. France he would punch in the face until the frog cried for mercy, and America he’d ignore the attention loving brat until he left, huffing like a child.
Obviously those fucking arseholes (not including Canada) did not appreciate his attempts, and there was no way in hell he was going to ask France for help. America, the consensus was, would be even worse, as the world considered his food a different kind of evil. The Italies were too fucking scared to be in the same room with him without Germany or Spain to protect them.
Oh...
Well.
England sighed and slowly placed the tea cup on the glass table before him, making sure to keep the clink as quiet as possible and using his pinkie to cushion it. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, agitated, and wondered just how he’d do it. He closed his eyes once the images on the telly began to blur together. He might not get the intended result over the phone, as the stupid man could simply hang up on him, or the call might not even be answered. It wouldn’t be the first time. It was baffling just how hard it was to get a hold of that bloody man when he actually wanted to speak with him.
He began picking at the frayed thread of his blanket and sighed heavily, pushing the thick blanket off with his feet before uncurling from his couch. The old thing had been a gift from Canada after England had taught him to crochet, and though it was clearly beginner’s work, England still loved it. He stretched and groaned when his back popped, feeling he really shouldn’t have stayed on the couch all day.
If he sent an e-mail there was no telling when that man would even look at it.
So, after a two and a half hour flight and an hour’s drive after booking a room at a roomy hotel, England stepped out of the taxi. As he turned around to pay the driver, a flash of green caught his eye, the signal of a free cab. England tsked as he turned around and fought the urge to shove his hands in his trousers. There was no need to be nervous he chided himself and walked to the door of Spain’s flat. If he was lucky, he might be there on the day South Italy was not, and if it went well, he might even get some of it over with today.
He knocked on the door and turned to look at the people walking by as he waited for the other man to open the door.
“Hola! Oh... Inglaterra, con qué te puedo ayudar,” Spain’s green eyes widened in surprise.
England pursed his lips and then sighed, “I’m actually here to ask for a… favor of sorts.”
Spain’s eyebrows rose even higher and his normally happy smile became a bit confused. He nodded and stepped back, motioning for England to come in. England eyed the soft gold walls and wondered if Spain’s love of gold had ever diminished as he was led to a sun room.
“Enton-And,” Spain corrected himself, switching to English, accent thick and heavy, “what do you think I can help you with?”
England sat on the chair offered and glanced away from the tanned man, eying twin wrought iron suns with faces and wide smiles on the wall next to a large window before turning to look Spain in the eye. Green as his own, but nothing alike as well.
“I am here because it has come to my attention… that… well… it appears that my cooking, not English food as a whole, mind, just mine, is a bit… bad,” England winced as he spoke, feeling the years of denying such claims weighing crushingly heavily on his pride.
“Well… we’ve all been saying that for centuries,” Spain smiled in apology and shrugged before gesturing with his hands to continue and leaned back against the white couch.
England kept himself from telling him just where he could shove his comment, “Yes, well. As I would rather kill the frog before asking him for help, and neither of the Italies seem too fond of being with me for long, I figured I would… well, come ask you for some assistance.”
Silence, before, “Why not Portugal?”
“I… well, Portugal would be too kind in his approach and I… I’m not sure why.”
“Oh. Well… I suppose I can help you,” Spain smiled and jumped up from his seat, “I was just about to make some dinner, so I guess now would be a good time to start!”
~*~
The lamb chops in tomato sauce ended up more like charcoal bricks in tomato paste.
~*~
Good God but Spain could be more snobby about food than France.
~*~
Two weeks later and three reservation extensions later, Spain finally convinced him that the lessons were not going that bad. By the beginning of the third week, Spain had convinced England to stay at his flat in a spare room. England had at first refused adamantly, but was reminded of the waste of money he was contributed to. After getting out of the shock of hearing something so sensible come out of Spain’s mouth, England grudgingly agreed.
Luckily he’d taken a month and some weeks off by using his accumulated ‘vacation’ days and was quite free to learn.
“Well, your tapas are getting better,” Spain said cheerfully as he scrubbed hard at a pot with steel wool. “Your Basque eggs aren’t as runny as they were, and your gazpacho is now a soup!”
“Oh, shut the fuck up.”
Spain laughed and scrubbed harder, trying to get the black crusted sauce off the casserole dish humming under his breath, “It’s true! Your cooking has gone up from shit to kind of passable.”
“My, aren’t you the sweetest thing,” England drawled as he glared at Spain from the kitchen island. He was cranky. He’d been there a couple of days and was near the point of wanting to throttle the man. Unflappable. Bastard.
Spain, insisting that England was the guest, refused to let England do anything. The only thing England kept tidy was the room he slept in, everything else, once he got mind to clean it, Spain would instantly appear and do it. Bastard had the balls to ‘tut’ at him in irritation once England pointed it out, he did not complain.
But, England shocked himself one night, as he was readying himself for bed, to realize he was enjoying his time with Spain. While the man was insufferable at times, like most of the people in his life seemed to be, he was actually good company. England’s lessons were progressing, his food no longer ended up charred, and the times he wasn’t holding himself back from slamming the man’s face into his pretty shiny, gold painted walls or wrought iron decorations just to see that smile drop, he actually enjoyed speaking with him.
“My god,” England gasped as he sat on the bed as the realization dawned on him. He instantly rose from the bed and began pacing the room, the carpet comforting against his feet. England scowled heavily at himself as he stopped in front of the bedroom mirror and flipped himself off.
“How the hell did you let that happen? When did it happen?”
His reflection glared at him, providing no answers and England turn away in anger, “Fuck. I’ll tell him tomorrow, he’ll kindly reject me and I’ll get over it.” Because he had such a good record with dealing with rejection. Satisfied with that, he nodded and went back to the bed, and fell to sleep. He dreamed of fucking tomatoes with inane smiles.
~*~
Today Spain was teaching him how to handle seafood and was attempting to teach him to make Marmitako. As Spain took out knives to cut the fish up with, England decided that then would be the time.
“I am starting to like you.”
Spain smiled at him from the knife drawer, “Me too, Inglaterra” and then looked down again to find the correct knives.
England frowned, “No, you dolt. I meant it as, a fancy you kind of way.”
Spain did not look up and pulled out a knife, examined it, “I know. I meant it that way too.”
“Oh… well, then,” England had not expected that. He was ready to call off the help lessons and go back home, nursing the death of the crush before confronting the man and telling him he was over it. In maybe a century or two, he’d be ready to do that to France and America.
“Yeah. We’ll break out the Sherry and make it our first date!” Spain finally looked up at England, smiling. England found himself responding with a shaky smile.
Tapas
Basque Eggs
Gazpacho
Marmitako
Author/Artist: subakai
Prompt: The gist of it was they decide to meet up and get along. England still tsun-tsun & cynical & Spain still cheerful and & sweet self. I lost the actual prompt.
Pairings: England/Spain
Rating/Warnings: PG
Summary: England decides fix the bad rap his cooking has gotten. He decides Spain is going to help.
It was because of Canada that it all happened. When dear, sweet, gentle Canada said he’d rather skip out on dinner and “W-why don’t we go out to eat instead?” England knew he had to do something. That was the last straw. England could brush off France’s and America’s insults to his cuisine. France he would punch in the face until the frog cried for mercy, and America he’d ignore the attention loving brat until he left, huffing like a child.
Obviously those fucking arseholes (not including Canada) did not appreciate his attempts, and there was no way in hell he was going to ask France for help. America, the consensus was, would be even worse, as the world considered his food a different kind of evil. The Italies were too fucking scared to be in the same room with him without Germany or Spain to protect them.
Oh...
Well.
England sighed and slowly placed the tea cup on the glass table before him, making sure to keep the clink as quiet as possible and using his pinkie to cushion it. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, agitated, and wondered just how he’d do it. He closed his eyes once the images on the telly began to blur together. He might not get the intended result over the phone, as the stupid man could simply hang up on him, or the call might not even be answered. It wouldn’t be the first time. It was baffling just how hard it was to get a hold of that bloody man when he actually wanted to speak with him.
He began picking at the frayed thread of his blanket and sighed heavily, pushing the thick blanket off with his feet before uncurling from his couch. The old thing had been a gift from Canada after England had taught him to crochet, and though it was clearly beginner’s work, England still loved it. He stretched and groaned when his back popped, feeling he really shouldn’t have stayed on the couch all day.
If he sent an e-mail there was no telling when that man would even look at it.
So, after a two and a half hour flight and an hour’s drive after booking a room at a roomy hotel, England stepped out of the taxi. As he turned around to pay the driver, a flash of green caught his eye, the signal of a free cab. England tsked as he turned around and fought the urge to shove his hands in his trousers. There was no need to be nervous he chided himself and walked to the door of Spain’s flat. If he was lucky, he might be there on the day South Italy was not, and if it went well, he might even get some of it over with today.
He knocked on the door and turned to look at the people walking by as he waited for the other man to open the door.
“Hola! Oh... Inglaterra, con qué te puedo ayudar,” Spain’s green eyes widened in surprise.
England pursed his lips and then sighed, “I’m actually here to ask for a… favor of sorts.”
Spain’s eyebrows rose even higher and his normally happy smile became a bit confused. He nodded and stepped back, motioning for England to come in. England eyed the soft gold walls and wondered if Spain’s love of gold had ever diminished as he was led to a sun room.
“Enton-And,” Spain corrected himself, switching to English, accent thick and heavy, “what do you think I can help you with?”
England sat on the chair offered and glanced away from the tanned man, eying twin wrought iron suns with faces and wide smiles on the wall next to a large window before turning to look Spain in the eye. Green as his own, but nothing alike as well.
“I am here because it has come to my attention… that… well… it appears that my cooking, not English food as a whole, mind, just mine, is a bit… bad,” England winced as he spoke, feeling the years of denying such claims weighing crushingly heavily on his pride.
“Well… we’ve all been saying that for centuries,” Spain smiled in apology and shrugged before gesturing with his hands to continue and leaned back against the white couch.
England kept himself from telling him just where he could shove his comment, “Yes, well. As I would rather kill the frog before asking him for help, and neither of the Italies seem too fond of being with me for long, I figured I would… well, come ask you for some assistance.”
Silence, before, “Why not Portugal?”
“I… well, Portugal would be too kind in his approach and I… I’m not sure why.”
“Oh. Well… I suppose I can help you,” Spain smiled and jumped up from his seat, “I was just about to make some dinner, so I guess now would be a good time to start!”
~*~
The lamb chops in tomato sauce ended up more like charcoal bricks in tomato paste.
~*~
Good God but Spain could be more snobby about food than France.
~*~
Two weeks later and three reservation extensions later, Spain finally convinced him that the lessons were not going that bad. By the beginning of the third week, Spain had convinced England to stay at his flat in a spare room. England had at first refused adamantly, but was reminded of the waste of money he was contributed to. After getting out of the shock of hearing something so sensible come out of Spain’s mouth, England grudgingly agreed.
Luckily he’d taken a month and some weeks off by using his accumulated ‘vacation’ days and was quite free to learn.
“Well, your tapas are getting better,” Spain said cheerfully as he scrubbed hard at a pot with steel wool. “Your Basque eggs aren’t as runny as they were, and your gazpacho is now a soup!”
“Oh, shut the fuck up.”
Spain laughed and scrubbed harder, trying to get the black crusted sauce off the casserole dish humming under his breath, “It’s true! Your cooking has gone up from shit to kind of passable.”
“My, aren’t you the sweetest thing,” England drawled as he glared at Spain from the kitchen island. He was cranky. He’d been there a couple of days and was near the point of wanting to throttle the man. Unflappable. Bastard.
Spain, insisting that England was the guest, refused to let England do anything. The only thing England kept tidy was the room he slept in, everything else, once he got mind to clean it, Spain would instantly appear and do it. Bastard had the balls to ‘tut’ at him in irritation once England pointed it out, he did not complain.
But, England shocked himself one night, as he was readying himself for bed, to realize he was enjoying his time with Spain. While the man was insufferable at times, like most of the people in his life seemed to be, he was actually good company. England’s lessons were progressing, his food no longer ended up charred, and the times he wasn’t holding himself back from slamming the man’s face into his pretty shiny, gold painted walls or wrought iron decorations just to see that smile drop, he actually enjoyed speaking with him.
“My god,” England gasped as he sat on the bed as the realization dawned on him. He instantly rose from the bed and began pacing the room, the carpet comforting against his feet. England scowled heavily at himself as he stopped in front of the bedroom mirror and flipped himself off.
“How the hell did you let that happen? When did it happen?”
His reflection glared at him, providing no answers and England turn away in anger, “Fuck. I’ll tell him tomorrow, he’ll kindly reject me and I’ll get over it.” Because he had such a good record with dealing with rejection. Satisfied with that, he nodded and went back to the bed, and fell to sleep. He dreamed of fucking tomatoes with inane smiles.
~*~
Today Spain was teaching him how to handle seafood and was attempting to teach him to make Marmitako. As Spain took out knives to cut the fish up with, England decided that then would be the time.
“I am starting to like you.”
Spain smiled at him from the knife drawer, “Me too, Inglaterra” and then looked down again to find the correct knives.
England frowned, “No, you dolt. I meant it as, a fancy you kind of way.”
Spain did not look up and pulled out a knife, examined it, “I know. I meant it that way too.”
“Oh… well, then,” England had not expected that. He was ready to call off the help lessons and go back home, nursing the death of the crush before confronting the man and telling him he was over it. In maybe a century or two, he’d be ready to do that to France and America.
“Yeah. We’ll break out the Sherry and make it our first date!” Spain finally looked up at England, smiling. England found himself responding with a shaky smile.
Tapas
Basque Eggs
Gazpacho
Marmitako