❛❛ tastes like home ❜❜
❛ part 1/1 ❜
✰ ‘verse
⤷ sɓuᴉɥꓕ ɹǝɓuɐɹʇS
♡ pairing
⤷ alexei smirnoff x fem!reader
☹ warnings
⤷ none
word count
⤷ 1,010 words
tags
⤷ requested by @missdreamermerchant
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Was it orthodox for a pair of newlyweds to room with a paranoid hermit in his armoured bunker? No, it wasn't in any way traditional, but when the husband was, in all technicality, a form of illegal alien - being an infiltrating Russian scientist and all - you made do with what you had. Despite the mess, you and Alexei had a bedroom all to yourself, and Murray’s attitude towards all of the ‘canoodling’ became almost charming after a few weeks. For a sweet individual like you, raised on everything homemade from scratch, the only trouble was the kitchen.
Murray Bauman’s kitchen had always been a disaster before you stepped into the picture: haphazardly packaged food, sticky counters, unwashed dishes, you name it. It was a miracle his oven worked with its thick coat of grime. You were reasonably sure something was living in the fridge, and at this point in its evolution, it was probably paying rent. But after a lot of drinks - and some help from the new mister in your life - the kitchen was sparkling and ready for use.
If there was one thing you could love just as much as being married to your local Russian doofus, it would be cooking for him. Whether it was the classic but legendary grilled cheese or a pan of fresh buttery cookies, nobody was more ecstatic to receive handmade American cuisine than Alexei - and to a lesser (but still pleased) degree Murray, who had been growing tired of whatever shit he slapped together whenever takeout threatened his little sanctuary. Cherry pie became a favourite for so long that you had to actually stop making it for pockets of time, sometimes even weeks on end, in order to maintain the specialness of the treat.
The first time he worked up the courage to request a meal, you severely misunderstood what he was saying, as you did not speak Russian. You were swaying about the little kitchen, humming a tune by The Clash and prepping to begin cooking when he peered around the corner of the pantry.
"Hello," you greeted in a coy coo, pursing your lips playfully. "You hungry?"
A round little smile passed over the man's face, but his brows twitched with an unspoken question. He knew you wouldn't understand, but he had a habit of babbling off in Russian first anyways. When he finally spoke in his bits of broken English, though, a rush of red rose to your face.
"You - make me khinkay?"
You swore on your grandfather's grave that he was just repeating the word 'kinky' over and over again until Murray found his way into the room. "Khinkali," he informed you. "It's a dish, by the way. Sorry to disappoint you. I know you're - ah, adventurous, if I'm using choice words."
"Oh, screw you," you muttered, waving him away as you turned back to the Russian man, much less flustered now. "What is it?" Murray had already sauntered out of the room, just like he often did when he humoured being your translator. Thankfully, he had helped Alexei get some kind of grip on English, as exemplified before, and when you looked to your newlywed partner, you attempted a smile. "Show me how to make?" you phrased, tilting your head gently to one side.
He beamed. "Da, da,” he replied, stepping into the kitchen with more confidence in his swagger as he began to pilfer through Murray's pantry, which you had stocked, thankfully. "You - er - meat?" Alexei began to list what ingredients he knew in English, which was essentially just meat, flour, and milk. It took a three-minute game of charades to figure out cilantro, and another two to ferret out one last handful of spices and other savoury paraphernalia. Soon, the counters were set with the bits of food, a cookie sheet, and other utensils, and thus, your lesson in Russian cuisine began.
Alexei began by showing you how to make the dough, trying his best to guide your hands through the correct motions of whatever the recipe was. You could tell that even with hands that knew the machinations of scientific progress, he had never really done much cooking himself. Patiently, you kept up with his motions and short-worded guidances, reassuring him that it was okay if you covered yourself with flour and he didn't. As the final pieces of the recipe were finalised, you discovered that he had shown you how to make dumplings. You grinned, carefully twisting off the top of each and looking at him questioningly.
"Wouldn't you cook the meat before putting it in?" you inquired. Brows furrowed, he shook his head after a moment and murmured something in his mother tongue, miming a gesture with his hands that translated to the aspect of togetherness.
"Okay," you said with a slight shrug. "You know how to make 'em better than me, baby." A pot was heated with boiling water, and the dumplings were set to cook.
When you removed the piping-hot little plops of dough out of the water, gently rolling them onto a dish, Alexei seemed to appear out of nowhere, once again poking his curly head into the kitchen. You gave another sheepish shrug, as if to say 'I tried' while setting the dumplings aside to cool.
He was smiling, though, broadly and brightly. It was infectious.
"What?" you asked through a slight grin of your own. "Excited to taste something from home?"
Alexei bobbed his head, but the expression he wore stated that there was a catch. He approached you, arms gently looping over your shoulders in an embrace as he pointed to the ceiling. "This home." You craned your neck to look up at him, feeling him beaming into your hair. "Taste like home," he repeated, audibly smiling, and a rosy colour settled onto your cheeks.
"Ah," you mumbled. "So ... this is home?"
A pause, then a pleased, "Da."
You sighed, looking over at the little Russian dumplings - plus the extra Russian dumpling gently hugging you from behind - and replied, "Good to know, baby. Good to know."
