[fic] VF drabble: Omelet
Title: Omelet
Pairing: Asami x Akihito
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Warnings: This is cute and really sweet, though I think I managed to keep them IC. But bring your insulin.
Disclaimer: Asami and Akihito and everything about them belong to Yamane-sensei.
Notes: This one is for rinelin (thank you!), who asked me to write about Asami's cooking skills. Since I'd written him as a good chef once ( Appetizer) I decided to give him a little trouble this time. ^^;
He cursed fluently and at length in English. It sounded so much better in a language with lots of k's in a word. There'd be a knot on his head tomorrow, he thought as he rubbed the back of it.
And still no damned skillet. He paid how much for this apartment with its big kitchen? Why the hell wouldn't there be a skillet in it?
Frustrated, he jerked open the pantry. Rice. Rice cooker. Noodles. Rice. Seaweed. Rice. Box of unopened pots. Rice. His eyes flew back to the box. Of course. He just hadn't ever opened them. He picked up the carton and coughed a little as a thick layer of dust fell from the top and wafted around the room.
It's not like I ever needed them. That's what minions are for.
He ripped the box open, slicing his finger on one of those damned thick staples meant to torture consumers.
Note to self: find and staple the man who invented those.
The thought of the offender writhing in agony put him in a much better frame of mind, and he happily lifted the pots out, inspecting them and setting them aside. Little pot. Medium pot. Big freaking pot. Skillet! He tossed the other pots back into the box and shoved it back into the pantry, forcing the door shut when it wouldn't quite fit.
He set it on the stove, the thought crossing his mind of cleaning it. It looked OK though. Just a little dusty. He looked around but didn't see a towel, so he wiped it with his shirt, rubbing at a smudge. That would work.
Now, the food.
There was a plastic bag sitting on the counter. He'd bribed the security guy from downstairs to run to the store for him. Peppers. Onions. Mushrooms. Eggs. Ham. Exactly what he'd asked for. He hadn't made an omelet in years, not since college, but it's not the kind of thing a guy forgets.
He broke a few eggs into a bowl and stared the white particles floating in them. What the hell kinds of eggs were they making these days, shells crumbling like that?
Using his fingers he poked around the bowl snagging all the shell, managing to get egg everywhere but the skillet. A knot of pain was growing on either side of his head. Unthinkingly he ran a hand through his hair, swearing again as he realized it was still covered in egg.
Why the hell was he doing this? He made himself remember the reason. It was their first weekend back home. He'd wanted to give him something for what he'd been through, something a little normal, even though life with him would be anything but. He took a deep breath. Right. That was worth a little pain and mess. He got back to work at it.
After he'd rinsed his hands off in the sink, he got down to chopping. This was a fun part. He imagined the anatomy of all the people who made staples and didn't put towels in kitchens and mutated chickens into laying fragile eggs and he sliced and diced his way through all those vegetables in no time. By the time his frustrations were worked out, the vegetables looked like they'd been through a food processor set to mush. But really, he thought, vegetable mush would taste the same as bigger pieces. Inside an omelet it wouldn't even be noticeable.
He put the ham on the cutting board and stared at it. Should he cut it normal sized, or turn it into mush too so it looked like he meant to do that? The thought of eating pureed ham turned his stomach, but the thought of looking like he'd made a mistake turned it more so he opted for mush.
OK, it was ready.
He cranked the heat up on the skillet. Crap! Oil. There had to be some. He rushed back to the pantry. Why the hell was there all this rice? He knocked a bag aside, wincing when it hit the floor and split open, spraying grains across the tile. There was no time to worry about that though. The pan was too hot. He grabbed a container of oil that was now visible and dumped a bit into the pan. Maybe too much. He dumped some into the sink and put the pan back on the stove, then turned away to grab the eggs. When he turned back around flames were crawling around the edges of the pain where the oil had dribbled. He just stood there and stared as the rest of the oil caught on fire and flames shot toward the ceiling.
The smoke alarm went off, a loud blaring siren.
Luckily he was tall.
The smoke alarm, were it conscious, would have been surprised to find itself hurled across the room. Stunned or just dead, it was now silent.
He waved aside some smoke and made his way to the stove. Burner off. Grease fire. No water. He knew better than that. He had to smother it. What did he have lots of? Looking around, he spotted the answer.
One five kilo bag of rice later the flames were out, only smoke remaining.
It'll clear out. It's not much worse than cigar night at Sion. He coughed a bit, waving the smoke toward the exhaust fan.
The pan wasn't in very good shape, seeing as it was filled with a mix of scorched and raw rice. He managed to scrape most out of it into the sink. The rest would just be flavor.
OK. Pan, a little oil, a little heat.
He grabbed the eggs and whisked them with a pair of chopsticks, and added a little water. Into the pan they went. He sprinkled some salt and pepper on. It was looking good. They were bubbling nicely. He could almost smell them over the smoke still lingering.
It seemed like he was forgetting something though.
He gently loosened the omelet from the pan. Perfect. He scraped some of the vegetable-ham mush onto half and contemplated the picture it made. That didn't look right. It was too... runny. It hit him. The vegetables. He'd forgotten to cook the vegetables.
He swore again, this time in German. It had even more k's than English.
It wouldn't hurt to leave it cooking a little while longer to heat them through. That would probably be good enough And it gave him time to find a plate. He'd used plates before though so he knew where to find them, and felt some satisfaction at that.
By the time he got back to the stove the omelet looked done. Maybe a little crispy, but those browned bits just made it taste good. It slid onto the plate and he flipped half of it over to finish it off.
It was a little strange looking. There were unexpected black spots. He peered closely. A few pieces of raw blackened rice were embedded in it. They kind of looked like sesame seeds. Anyway, that was his story and he was sticking to it.
With perfect timing, a shirtless Akihito stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. "What's that god-awful smell?"
"I was just making breakfast," Asami said casually. "Would you like some?"
Akihito slowly focused on Asami, who didn't realize that his hair was sticking straight up in places, shellacked with dried egg. His gaze went to the rice-covered floor to the soot-covered ceiling with a hole where the smoke detector had been, finally coming to a rest on the black-speckled omelet sitting on the table, greenish-brown filling oozing out from the insides. His mouth opened, then just as abruptly closed.
His eyes softened and a small smile broke through. "Yeah. That looks... good. Thanks for going to the trouble."
"It was no trouble." Asami turned back to the stove to make another, not able to help feeling just a bit pleased. "Not any worth mentioning, at any rate."
This time the omelet was perfect. It had all come back to him. He sat down across from Akihito and began to eat.
Akihito had stopped, chopsticks half way to his mouth. "Yours looks different."
Asami sipped some coffee. "I ran out of the black sesame seeds I used with yours. I thought you should have the good one."
Akihito crunched through another piece. "I see. You probably shouldn't buy that brand anymore. They taste like burnt rice."
Coffee went down the wrong pipe and Asami choked, coughing to clear it. "I'll make a note of that."
Two men sitting down to breakfast on a Sunday morning, much like the rest of the world did.
Mission accomplished, he thought, with no little pride.
~end~
Now with omake goodness! ^__^
http://sunflower1343.livejournal.com/67199.html
Pairing: Asami x Akihito
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Warnings: This is cute and really sweet, though I think I managed to keep them IC. But bring your insulin.
Disclaimer: Asami and Akihito and everything about them belong to Yamane-sensei.
Notes: This one is for rinelin (thank you!), who asked me to write about Asami's cooking skills. Since I'd written him as a good chef once ( Appetizer) I decided to give him a little trouble this time. ^^;
He cursed fluently and at length in English. It sounded so much better in a language with lots of k's in a word. There'd be a knot on his head tomorrow, he thought as he rubbed the back of it.
And still no damned skillet. He paid how much for this apartment with its big kitchen? Why the hell wouldn't there be a skillet in it?
Frustrated, he jerked open the pantry. Rice. Rice cooker. Noodles. Rice. Seaweed. Rice. Box of unopened pots. Rice. His eyes flew back to the box. Of course. He just hadn't ever opened them. He picked up the carton and coughed a little as a thick layer of dust fell from the top and wafted around the room.
It's not like I ever needed them. That's what minions are for.
He ripped the box open, slicing his finger on one of those damned thick staples meant to torture consumers.
Note to self: find and staple the man who invented those.
The thought of the offender writhing in agony put him in a much better frame of mind, and he happily lifted the pots out, inspecting them and setting them aside. Little pot. Medium pot. Big freaking pot. Skillet! He tossed the other pots back into the box and shoved it back into the pantry, forcing the door shut when it wouldn't quite fit.
He set it on the stove, the thought crossing his mind of cleaning it. It looked OK though. Just a little dusty. He looked around but didn't see a towel, so he wiped it with his shirt, rubbing at a smudge. That would work.
Now, the food.
There was a plastic bag sitting on the counter. He'd bribed the security guy from downstairs to run to the store for him. Peppers. Onions. Mushrooms. Eggs. Ham. Exactly what he'd asked for. He hadn't made an omelet in years, not since college, but it's not the kind of thing a guy forgets.
He broke a few eggs into a bowl and stared the white particles floating in them. What the hell kinds of eggs were they making these days, shells crumbling like that?
Using his fingers he poked around the bowl snagging all the shell, managing to get egg everywhere but the skillet. A knot of pain was growing on either side of his head. Unthinkingly he ran a hand through his hair, swearing again as he realized it was still covered in egg.
Why the hell was he doing this? He made himself remember the reason. It was their first weekend back home. He'd wanted to give him something for what he'd been through, something a little normal, even though life with him would be anything but. He took a deep breath. Right. That was worth a little pain and mess. He got back to work at it.
After he'd rinsed his hands off in the sink, he got down to chopping. This was a fun part. He imagined the anatomy of all the people who made staples and didn't put towels in kitchens and mutated chickens into laying fragile eggs and he sliced and diced his way through all those vegetables in no time. By the time his frustrations were worked out, the vegetables looked like they'd been through a food processor set to mush. But really, he thought, vegetable mush would taste the same as bigger pieces. Inside an omelet it wouldn't even be noticeable.
He put the ham on the cutting board and stared at it. Should he cut it normal sized, or turn it into mush too so it looked like he meant to do that? The thought of eating pureed ham turned his stomach, but the thought of looking like he'd made a mistake turned it more so he opted for mush.
OK, it was ready.
He cranked the heat up on the skillet. Crap! Oil. There had to be some. He rushed back to the pantry. Why the hell was there all this rice? He knocked a bag aside, wincing when it hit the floor and split open, spraying grains across the tile. There was no time to worry about that though. The pan was too hot. He grabbed a container of oil that was now visible and dumped a bit into the pan. Maybe too much. He dumped some into the sink and put the pan back on the stove, then turned away to grab the eggs. When he turned back around flames were crawling around the edges of the pain where the oil had dribbled. He just stood there and stared as the rest of the oil caught on fire and flames shot toward the ceiling.
The smoke alarm went off, a loud blaring siren.
Luckily he was tall.
The smoke alarm, were it conscious, would have been surprised to find itself hurled across the room. Stunned or just dead, it was now silent.
He waved aside some smoke and made his way to the stove. Burner off. Grease fire. No water. He knew better than that. He had to smother it. What did he have lots of? Looking around, he spotted the answer.
One five kilo bag of rice later the flames were out, only smoke remaining.
It'll clear out. It's not much worse than cigar night at Sion. He coughed a bit, waving the smoke toward the exhaust fan.
The pan wasn't in very good shape, seeing as it was filled with a mix of scorched and raw rice. He managed to scrape most out of it into the sink. The rest would just be flavor.
OK. Pan, a little oil, a little heat.
He grabbed the eggs and whisked them with a pair of chopsticks, and added a little water. Into the pan they went. He sprinkled some salt and pepper on. It was looking good. They were bubbling nicely. He could almost smell them over the smoke still lingering.
It seemed like he was forgetting something though.
He gently loosened the omelet from the pan. Perfect. He scraped some of the vegetable-ham mush onto half and contemplated the picture it made. That didn't look right. It was too... runny. It hit him. The vegetables. He'd forgotten to cook the vegetables.
He swore again, this time in German. It had even more k's than English.
It wouldn't hurt to leave it cooking a little while longer to heat them through. That would probably be good enough And it gave him time to find a plate. He'd used plates before though so he knew where to find them, and felt some satisfaction at that.
By the time he got back to the stove the omelet looked done. Maybe a little crispy, but those browned bits just made it taste good. It slid onto the plate and he flipped half of it over to finish it off.
It was a little strange looking. There were unexpected black spots. He peered closely. A few pieces of raw blackened rice were embedded in it. They kind of looked like sesame seeds. Anyway, that was his story and he was sticking to it.
With perfect timing, a shirtless Akihito stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. "What's that god-awful smell?"
"I was just making breakfast," Asami said casually. "Would you like some?"
Akihito slowly focused on Asami, who didn't realize that his hair was sticking straight up in places, shellacked with dried egg. His gaze went to the rice-covered floor to the soot-covered ceiling with a hole where the smoke detector had been, finally coming to a rest on the black-speckled omelet sitting on the table, greenish-brown filling oozing out from the insides. His mouth opened, then just as abruptly closed.
His eyes softened and a small smile broke through. "Yeah. That looks... good. Thanks for going to the trouble."
"It was no trouble." Asami turned back to the stove to make another, not able to help feeling just a bit pleased. "Not any worth mentioning, at any rate."
This time the omelet was perfect. It had all come back to him. He sat down across from Akihito and began to eat.
Akihito had stopped, chopsticks half way to his mouth. "Yours looks different."
Asami sipped some coffee. "I ran out of the black sesame seeds I used with yours. I thought you should have the good one."
Akihito crunched through another piece. "I see. You probably shouldn't buy that brand anymore. They taste like burnt rice."
Coffee went down the wrong pipe and Asami choked, coughing to clear it. "I'll make a note of that."
Two men sitting down to breakfast on a Sunday morning, much like the rest of the world did.
Mission accomplished, he thought, with no little pride.
~end~
Now with omake goodness! ^__^
http://sunflower1343.livejournal.com/67199.html