FusilliandFeuds

Summary: You try your best to actually finish cooking a meal for Yelena without her input. Yelena thwarts your efforts.

A/N: Something lighthearted and short :) Can you tell I was hungry when I wrote this? Let me know what you think!

MasterlistIRequests

A clattering door and a questioning yell of your name alerted you to Yelena’s arrival. “In the kitchen!” You called, smiling as she arrived in the room. This smile immediately dropped and your eyebrows scrunched together at the almost terrified expression upon her features. A sudden fear overtaking you, the seriousness upon her features so unfamiliar to you, you dropped your spoon. “Yelena, what is it?”

“What are you doing to the fusilli?”

Narrowed eyes almost glaring at her, gaze flickering towards the boiling pasta for a brief moment, you slowly answered; “No, Yelena, not tonight.” You warned, ready to ward off her usual attempts to take over with the blunted fork clutched between your fingers. “I’m cooking the pasta,” you explained, as though that would ease her.

With an exaggerated groan she burst forward in a fit of ungodly speed and deftly ignored your brandished fork to snatch the spoon from the counter. “No!” She exclaimed, “you’re ruiningit.”

She fiddled with the hob controls and the over-zealous boiling calmed significantly. “Yelena,“ you tried sternly, before being immediately cut off.

“Cooking pasta is an art,” she told you sternly, brandishing the spoon like a weapon. “It’s a balance - too long and it’s a stodgy mess, too short and it can break your teeth.”

You groaned, leaning your elbows against the countertop and letting your head fall into your hands. “Yelena, it’s my turn.“ you tried again but she resolutely ignored you.

“Did you put salt in this water?” Without awaiting a reply, she grabbed the salt shaker from beside you and liberally sprinkled some into the pan. “RememberItoldyou, you have to salt the water.”

Rubbing tired eyes with the heel of your hand, you asked; “why?”

“I don’t know,” you could hear her rifling through one of your cupboards and you groaned once more, “it’s what the Italians do.”

Counting backwards from ten, in every language you could think of, you slowly relaxed. Raising your head from its cradle in your hands, you asked hopefully, “what about the sauce?”

Her voice was low, dramatic, as she asked; “The sauce?”

Vaguely, nervous for her judgement, you gestured to the pot on the spare ring. “It’s in there.”

Trepidation overtook her. A slow, cautious hand reached towards the lid and, with a mighty flourish, she revealed the simmering sauce beneath. Wide eyes turned on you, “are you going to finish cooking the pasta in this?”

For the life of you, you couldn’t work out the answer she were after. Eyes narrowing in an attempt to work her out, you hedged your bets and guessed. Slowly, you let out; “no.”

Her mouth fell open, disdain colouring her gaze. “No?” She repeated, distaste lining the word. “You have to finish the pasta in the sauce!” She exclaimed, pots and pans clattering as she entirely reorganised the workspace to her liking.

She continued speaking, a tirade of specificities of the world of cuisine spilling from her, but you tuned out entirely. You should have been more prepared for this outcome, it was almost a weekly routine between the pair of you at this point; you would exclaim that it was your turn to cook only for Yelena to arrive before you had finished and entirely overturn your attempts.

Your hopes at successfully finishing this meal thoroughly dashed, you slumped further over the counter. Something tugged suddenly at your apron and you whirled around, hands awkwardly raised as though ready to shove an attacker.

Yelena laughed at the futility of your poor attempt. Agilely, she caught the wrist that came closest to meeting its mark and deposited the wooden spoon into your hand. “Turn around,” she instructed.

Eyebrows raised, you asked, “Why?”

Dramatically, she gestured to her shirt. “This is my favourite shirt,” your eyebrows raised as you looked over the all black, scoop neck T-shirt. “I don’t want to ruin it.“

Harshly, she tugged your apron free and wrapped it around herself. As she lifted her arms to adjust the strap over her neck, you raised a brow at her. “There’s a hole in your ‘favourite shirt’.”

Looking at the ripped hole just beneath her arm, she nonchalantly explained it away. “It’s character.”

“Sure,” you nodded wryly.

You watched her potter in the kitchen briefly after that, brandishing spoons and spices like one of those dramatic chefs you saw so much of on daytime tv.

Quickly, you realised your attempt to cook had been entirely thwarted for the evening and you were forced to retreat to your rickety table. Scraping the chair dramatically against the tiled floor, you slumped into a seated position with an almighty creak.

Yelena finished off the meal very efficiently after that. Presenting you with an admittedly delicious smelling plate of steaming pasta, that looked very different from the dish you had originally intended to make, she waved a dramatic hand over it with a flourish. “Voila.”

Your eyes drifted shut as you sniffed at the aroma rising from the plate, “this smells so good.”

“I told you,” she sternly spoke, “pasta is an art.”

Rolling your eyes, you impatiently speared some pasta on your fork and gave the bold proclamation; “next time I’m definitely cooking.”

Yelena scoffed. Mouth already full of pasta, she awkwardly told you; “you say that every week.”

You went to reply, make some comment about her controlling culinary nature, but immediately cut yourself off as the tangy, yet sweet, taste of seasoned tomato engulfed your tastebuds. Your words morphed instead into; “this is so good.”