warning: fluff, domestic!scott, tomatoes (if you’re allergic to them, don’t sue meeeee)
note: domestic!scott save me pls and thank u
“what about pasta?” you asked, head in the fridge with some words mumbled. it was that awkward time before christmas where you had some food in the house, but you were yet to do your big grocery shop. both you and scott knew you had some things in the house, but your dinner tonight would require some creative thinking.
“homemade pizza?” scott suggested whilst looking through the cupboards for flour. it was a bit later in the evening and you’d both had a shower after work, but you still had some energy to make food instead of going for the easy option of ordering in. you also loved cooking with scott, so it was a bonus.
“ooo, what about that stew you like?” came your next suggestion, rifling through the different vegetables you had left over from the other night.
“i was thinking something carby.” he replied, closing the cupboard and looking over at you.
you looked directly at him when you said, “okay, i’m with you on that.” so, you kept looking through everything and finally made the decision of pasta.
“let’s do it.” scott reacted happily to your decision, already pulling out the tub of flour and grabbed the eggs while you pulled out tomatoes, fresh herbs and the tomato purée to make the sauce. scott also managed to find your pasta maker that his parents had gifted to you two randomly one year, but it had come in handy on several occasions.
once you had everything out, scott started on the pasta, sifting the flour and measuring it out before dumping it on the table and adding the eggs to the dip he had made in the centre. you started on the sauce, dicing up onions and garlic before browning them off and added chopped tomatoes and seasoning.
the smells that surrounded the kitchen were delicious, music was softly playing from the speaker and scott was completely in his element of stretching the pasta through the machine before slicing it into thin strands of spaghetti.
“ready to cook it?” you asked after checking the sauce. it needed a few minutes more.
“oh, yeh,” he replied with a smirk, carefully picking it up before bringing it over to the pan that already had water boiling in it. “i’m very proud of this batch, so i’m going to stay near it.”
“okay, mr,” you smiled, jokingly putting your hands up in surrender and stepping back slightly. “i shall not step on your toes.”
“you better not.” he carefully lowered the pasta into the pan before giving it a quick stir. you put down your spoon from the sauce, and within seconds you were in the air, held up only but scott’s arms. he was twirling you around with him, keeping hold of you tightly.
all that could be heard in that moment were your squeals of joy and scott’s deep laugh at your happiness.
Arrival and Assembly Operations (John Price x Reader)
John arrives unannounced, you make dinner.
This is really part one of a two-part scene.
less than 1k words
CW: swearing
Dinner gets pushed back when John arrives unannounced and upset. He’s abrupt and defensive, biting off the ends of words when you ask him what brought him by. He’s evasive about poker – he went but decided not to stay.
“Bloody hell, I can’t stop by to see you without an agenda now?” He’s huffy, as if his honour is being questioned.
“You can stop by any time you want, hot stuff. Are you going to be staying for dinner?” You clarify, not willing to give him the fight he is clearly spoiling to have.
Some part of him must recognize he’s turned up empty handed and unannounced at dinner time because he attempts to course correct despite the lingering grump.
“If you’ll have me, love.” Annoyance and contrition fight for the upper hand in his tone.
“Of course, it’s your favourite tonight, world’s worst pasta.”
The dish is an inside joke between the two of you, your culinary skills tending towards the improvisational.
That finally cracks his sullen face with a small smile, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it off the back of a kitchen chair.
“Do you want me to chop?” He asks, inspecting your recent handiwork piled on a chopping board. He absentmindedly pushes his sleeves up his forearms as he moves. You are a menace with anything sharp, just as likely to hurt yourself as do any real kitchen work. The veggies look so bulky they might as well be steamed and served as a side dish as opposed to anything resembling a proper ingredient for a pasta sauce. You smile at his skeptical look and shake your head, directing him to the table instead.
“No, think I’ve got them right where I want them. Go settle down, I’ve got a handle on this, Captain. It’ll be edible, trust me.”
John’s mouth kicks up in a lopsided smile at your misplaced confidence and he folds himself onto a chair at the kitchen table to watch. You hand him a beer in a familiar routine, chatting aimlessly about work while he listens and reminds you to stir this or add that. The bad mood finally shakes free after his second beer and your third, conversation coming easier. Soon his guffaws of laughter are nearly drowning out the fire alarm.
Somewhere along the line you had grabbed a random saucepan and filled it with water to boil the spaghetti. You hadn’t paid enough attention to the size of the pot and the short-sided saucepan dropped the spaghetti noodles within range of the propane stove’s flame. The pot was nearly boiling when the noodles ignited, startling you into a shriek and making John roar with laughter.
“Fuckin’ hell, I knew coming to see you was the right call. Never a dull moment, love.”
“I’m glad you came over too, this always goes way better with an audience.” You pat his bicep as he carries the torched pasta out to the garbage bin on the front stoop. You can’t help but wonder what happened at poker as you watch his broad back disappear down the hall. A sudden wash of sympathy for your grumpy man comes over you. You know he looks forward to those nights, even if he wouldn’t ever say as much outright.
The pot was still steaming when he returned, the grim look back on his face.
“Have I mentioned that I hate this place?” He asked, stepping up to the sink to refill the pot. You know that look on his face, the tightness around his eyes and the set to his mouth. He’s trying to keep a leash on his temper.
“It may have come up casually, yes. Are you coming off the bench to assist, cap? I’m assuming you know a trick.” You tease him gently when he replaces the sauce-pan on the burner, trying to pull him back to a better mood.
“Your front door is basically Balsa wood, it’s gotta be a joke, innit?” He grumbles, taking a handful of pasta and standing it on end in the new pot of boiling water and holding it upright. As it softens the pressure of his hand bends it, and after a few moments of swishing it around he is able to fold it enough to get it all inside the pot to finish cooking.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” You breath, impressed.
“Gotta improvise sometimes, love.” He explains, picking up his beer to lean against the counter and watch it cook this time.
The long line of his muscular body gets your attention and you bite your bottom lip, picking up your own beer and taking a drink you don’t go wandering across the kitchen to press yourself up against him like an alley cat. He catches on to your line of thought quickly, his observational skills not dusty in the least.
“You truly are trouble in the kitchen. Let’s not spoil a second batch of noodles darling.” The smile he’d been wearing earlier flutters at the corners of his mouth again.
“Did you think you were going to rescue dinner and get sexually harassed when you came over tonight?”
John tilts his head back and laughs, mirth returning to his eyes.
“I can only ever hope, love.” He says fondly, smirking as your eyes connect.
The timer for the pasta goes off and John turns the burner off, taking the pot to the sink to drain it while you watch, finding his competence compelling for some reason. After he finishes with the pasta he heads in your direction, corralling you against the table to kiss you. When he murmurs something about dessert later in to your ear, you wonder if you can convince him to stay the night.
Joe De Mers (1910-1988) "There's no doubt about it," Jan said, her voice warm with admiration, "you're a useful man about the house" Making Dinner (1954) Source
