Trowa Tries The Culinary Arts
folder
Gundam Wing/AC › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
525
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Gundam Wing/AC › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
525
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Trowa Tries The Culinary Arts
Title: Trowa Tries The Culinary Arts
Author: Emerald Koon
Rating: PG-13 for implied stuff, I always like to over rate, never hurts
Warnings: PWP, silliness
Pairings: implied 3x4
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and the Gundam boys, both of Wing and not, are not mine. Never will be, but they are fun to play with aren’t they?
Note: This was a request from my own personal Heero, actually suggested while I was baking. Very successfully might I add. So here you go Hee-chan. Also does anyone but me wonder what book Trowa was reading on the Peacemillion?
The success of their mission, their very lives, depended on the efficiency of the patrol, and they were everything they feared they might be -- thorough and very, very painstaking, and more dangerous still, the commanding sergeant obviously had imagination.
While they had hidden among the cold black rocks, the soldiers probed along the edge of the cliff in an organized and methodical search. They missed nothing. In the swaying of their lights, the group saw the blue steel of their rifle barrels.
Were they all to die here? Was this the end of it? Now that they were so close to silencing the deadly Guns of Navarone? They watched as the soldiers drew closer and closer. He knew just behind him someone was fingering their knife.
A roaring permeated the barren room, something akin to the starting of a diesel engine. A sound so archaic and foreign as to command attention.
Even Wufei paused in his daily exorcises to look, and comment. “Hungry, Barton?”
Trowa was presently looking at his own stomach, silently cursing it for ruining the mood of the story. And betraying him in such a way.
“So it would seem.”
“Go make yourself something to eat then.”
Impassive, Trowa just rolled his eyes inwardly. Easy for you to say, you know how to cook edible food. Trowa on the other hand didn’t. Now if you were looking for something to scour the lining of you stomach and intestines, he could make you some coffee that would give you hemorrhoids. But something of nutritional value, that was beyond him. Some of his early mercenary comrades had playfully called his concoctions “Banishing Cooking” and they weren’t far wrong.
“There’s some crescent dough in the cooling unit, and hot dogs, just wrap some of the dough around the hot dog and heat it.” Heero studied him over his shoulder, laptop giving his face a blue glow. “You look like you could use the carbs.”
Trowa tried not to look to indignant as he walked past a smirking Wufei, he couldn’t help it if he was thin. Genetics had given him height and had, as yet, forgotten to fill him out. It wasn’t for lack of muscle tone.
Entering the kitchenette area Trowa wanted to shudder, all white walls, white tile backsplash, white counters, white sinks. Maybe he had a subconscious aversion to cooking, if only for the fact that he felt like he walking into an insane asylum.
Pulling open the door to the cooling unit, and with much trepidation, glanced inside. The hot dogs were sitting on a shelf, easy enough. But Trowa had to filter through a couple containers before he found the right one. It was labeled crescent dough, but he looked at the little blue can with a raised eyebrow. Rolling the can in his hands Trowa turned the little blue cylinder so that he could read the directions. He relished in a little happy dance as the directions came with matching pictures to explain them, probably for people like him.
Reading the directions twice to make sure that he had them right, he turned the can a little more to expose the little yellow tab that he was supposed to pull. Bracing himself for the pop sound that the instructions said was supposed to open the can, Trowa pulled the little yellow tab. And pulled, and pulled, till he had stripped the little blue can of its blue.
Utterly befuddled, and looking it, Trowa stood blue paper instructions in one hand and unopened can in the other. Reading the paper again, the little pictures didn’t say anything about the lack of pop.
And so, as men are wont to do, they forgo millions of years of evolution in favor of their Neanderthal roots.
Trowa began banging the can on the counter.
And so the question is, why was our newly devolved Neanderthal surprised when the can popped open?
Squatting on the floor, white cabinet door open in front of him as a shield, Trowa faced off with the hostile can of crescent rolls. The crescent rolls, coming in for the kill, rolled off the counter and onto the white tile floor. After several moments of inactivity, Trowa deemed it save to venture forth and collect the spoils of battle.
Following the again useful, as the pictures were telling him the right thing now, instructions he twisted the can open and unrolled the dough. Ah, new dilemma, what Heero had suggested wasn’t on the nice pictures, Trowa was going to have to get his brain back. But until then he stood there, again utterly befuddled, little blue paper in one hand, unopened package of hot dogs in the other, unrolled dough on the counter before him.
About that time the diesel engine that was Trowa’s stomach decided to rev-up again.
“Oh, that sounded violent.”
Quatre’s little blond head peeked into the kitchen, momentarily blinding Trowa, with all the halogen lights reflecting off the every white surface, including Quatre’s hair, and ungodly straight teeth.
“Heero just wanted me to ask you to make one of, whatever your making, for him too.”
Now remember gentle audience, Trowa’s still in primal mode.
‘Ok, make food, make good food… share with mate … impress mate ….. Make mate happy… get good lovin’ if mate happy… easy…wait… can’t cook…Crap!’
Crestfallen, Trowa glares at the offending hot dogs that have foiled his chance at “get good lovin’.”
“What are you making Trowa?”
Sniffing in disappointment, Trowa held out his unused implements of destruction, AKA hot dogs and blue paper, to Quatre. Many months of living with Trowa had taught Quatre how to basically interpret some of Trowa’s personal sign language. Thank god he did because I don’t know who else could.
Smiling, blinding Trowa again, Quatre, smart one that he is, put together the broken comments and gestures into something understandable.
“Oh, you’re making pigs in a blanket?”
Trowa panicked. The last he knew he had hot dogs, were there pigs to be found somewhere? Did they have the missing pictures he needed? But Heero didn’t say anything about pigs…
Utterly befuddled once again Trowa slid down one of the gleaming white cabinets to the floor. Quatre, slightly worried, relaxed into a squatting position beside his lover.
“Trowa…?”
“Trowa, how long does it take you to…”
Heero stopped at the door way, taking a moment to stare at his fallen and confused comrade.
‘And to think I let you fight alongside me.’
“Pigs?” was Trowa’s response to Heero’s inspection.
Heero felt his eyebrow start to twitch, lowering his head so that his bangs hid his eyes, and his emotions, in a utterly flat voice explained what he wanted to Trowa.
“Pigs in a blanket is slang, Trowa. Just take of the triangles of dough, place a single hot dog at the wide end and roll the dough around the hot dog. The dough will overlap, just so you know, and place the rolled up dough with the others of its kind on a tray and heat them about fifteen minutes.”
It wasn’t quite as nice as the pictures, but it would work. Standing Trowa took to the triangles of crescent dough with relish. Heero walked out before he hurt something. And Quatre just squatted there blinking, probably from glare his hair was creating.
20 minutes later…
Seven very neatly rolled pigs in a blanket lay on a small plate, four Gundam pilots sat around the table that the pigs sat upon. The four pilots sat staring at the eighth partially eaten pig and the fifth Gundam pilot, both laying on the floor unmoving.
Shaking his head, amazed, Heero looked at Trowa.
“How can you screw up pigs in a blanket?”
Trowa just sighed, head in his hands, ‘no lovin’ tonight….’
Owari
Quatre: Who passed out?
Emmy: My initial thought was that it should be Duo,
Duo: What’d I do to deserve that?!
Emmy: You weren’t there to protect yourself. But, as I was about to say, Hee-chan would kill me so I left it open to anyone besides Trowa and Heero. Though I like the thought of it being Wufei.
Wufei: What did I do?
Emmy: I just don’t like you right now.
Author: Emerald Koon
Rating: PG-13 for implied stuff, I always like to over rate, never hurts
Warnings: PWP, silliness
Pairings: implied 3x4
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and the Gundam boys, both of Wing and not, are not mine. Never will be, but they are fun to play with aren’t they?
Note: This was a request from my own personal Heero, actually suggested while I was baking. Very successfully might I add. So here you go Hee-chan. Also does anyone but me wonder what book Trowa was reading on the Peacemillion?
The success of their mission, their very lives, depended on the efficiency of the patrol, and they were everything they feared they might be -- thorough and very, very painstaking, and more dangerous still, the commanding sergeant obviously had imagination.
While they had hidden among the cold black rocks, the soldiers probed along the edge of the cliff in an organized and methodical search. They missed nothing. In the swaying of their lights, the group saw the blue steel of their rifle barrels.
Were they all to die here? Was this the end of it? Now that they were so close to silencing the deadly Guns of Navarone? They watched as the soldiers drew closer and closer. He knew just behind him someone was fingering their knife.
A roaring permeated the barren room, something akin to the starting of a diesel engine. A sound so archaic and foreign as to command attention.
Even Wufei paused in his daily exorcises to look, and comment. “Hungry, Barton?”
Trowa was presently looking at his own stomach, silently cursing it for ruining the mood of the story. And betraying him in such a way.
“So it would seem.”
“Go make yourself something to eat then.”
Impassive, Trowa just rolled his eyes inwardly. Easy for you to say, you know how to cook edible food. Trowa on the other hand didn’t. Now if you were looking for something to scour the lining of you stomach and intestines, he could make you some coffee that would give you hemorrhoids. But something of nutritional value, that was beyond him. Some of his early mercenary comrades had playfully called his concoctions “Banishing Cooking” and they weren’t far wrong.
“There’s some crescent dough in the cooling unit, and hot dogs, just wrap some of the dough around the hot dog and heat it.” Heero studied him over his shoulder, laptop giving his face a blue glow. “You look like you could use the carbs.”
Trowa tried not to look to indignant as he walked past a smirking Wufei, he couldn’t help it if he was thin. Genetics had given him height and had, as yet, forgotten to fill him out. It wasn’t for lack of muscle tone.
Entering the kitchenette area Trowa wanted to shudder, all white walls, white tile backsplash, white counters, white sinks. Maybe he had a subconscious aversion to cooking, if only for the fact that he felt like he walking into an insane asylum.
Pulling open the door to the cooling unit, and with much trepidation, glanced inside. The hot dogs were sitting on a shelf, easy enough. But Trowa had to filter through a couple containers before he found the right one. It was labeled crescent dough, but he looked at the little blue can with a raised eyebrow. Rolling the can in his hands Trowa turned the little blue cylinder so that he could read the directions. He relished in a little happy dance as the directions came with matching pictures to explain them, probably for people like him.
Reading the directions twice to make sure that he had them right, he turned the can a little more to expose the little yellow tab that he was supposed to pull. Bracing himself for the pop sound that the instructions said was supposed to open the can, Trowa pulled the little yellow tab. And pulled, and pulled, till he had stripped the little blue can of its blue.
Utterly befuddled, and looking it, Trowa stood blue paper instructions in one hand and unopened can in the other. Reading the paper again, the little pictures didn’t say anything about the lack of pop.
And so, as men are wont to do, they forgo millions of years of evolution in favor of their Neanderthal roots.
Trowa began banging the can on the counter.
And so the question is, why was our newly devolved Neanderthal surprised when the can popped open?
Squatting on the floor, white cabinet door open in front of him as a shield, Trowa faced off with the hostile can of crescent rolls. The crescent rolls, coming in for the kill, rolled off the counter and onto the white tile floor. After several moments of inactivity, Trowa deemed it save to venture forth and collect the spoils of battle.
Following the again useful, as the pictures were telling him the right thing now, instructions he twisted the can open and unrolled the dough. Ah, new dilemma, what Heero had suggested wasn’t on the nice pictures, Trowa was going to have to get his brain back. But until then he stood there, again utterly befuddled, little blue paper in one hand, unopened package of hot dogs in the other, unrolled dough on the counter before him.
About that time the diesel engine that was Trowa’s stomach decided to rev-up again.
“Oh, that sounded violent.”
Quatre’s little blond head peeked into the kitchen, momentarily blinding Trowa, with all the halogen lights reflecting off the every white surface, including Quatre’s hair, and ungodly straight teeth.
“Heero just wanted me to ask you to make one of, whatever your making, for him too.”
Now remember gentle audience, Trowa’s still in primal mode.
‘Ok, make food, make good food… share with mate … impress mate ….. Make mate happy… get good lovin’ if mate happy… easy…wait… can’t cook…Crap!’
Crestfallen, Trowa glares at the offending hot dogs that have foiled his chance at “get good lovin’.”
“What are you making Trowa?”
Sniffing in disappointment, Trowa held out his unused implements of destruction, AKA hot dogs and blue paper, to Quatre. Many months of living with Trowa had taught Quatre how to basically interpret some of Trowa’s personal sign language. Thank god he did because I don’t know who else could.
Smiling, blinding Trowa again, Quatre, smart one that he is, put together the broken comments and gestures into something understandable.
“Oh, you’re making pigs in a blanket?”
Trowa panicked. The last he knew he had hot dogs, were there pigs to be found somewhere? Did they have the missing pictures he needed? But Heero didn’t say anything about pigs…
Utterly befuddled once again Trowa slid down one of the gleaming white cabinets to the floor. Quatre, slightly worried, relaxed into a squatting position beside his lover.
“Trowa…?”
“Trowa, how long does it take you to…”
Heero stopped at the door way, taking a moment to stare at his fallen and confused comrade.
‘And to think I let you fight alongside me.’
“Pigs?” was Trowa’s response to Heero’s inspection.
Heero felt his eyebrow start to twitch, lowering his head so that his bangs hid his eyes, and his emotions, in a utterly flat voice explained what he wanted to Trowa.
“Pigs in a blanket is slang, Trowa. Just take of the triangles of dough, place a single hot dog at the wide end and roll the dough around the hot dog. The dough will overlap, just so you know, and place the rolled up dough with the others of its kind on a tray and heat them about fifteen minutes.”
It wasn’t quite as nice as the pictures, but it would work. Standing Trowa took to the triangles of crescent dough with relish. Heero walked out before he hurt something. And Quatre just squatted there blinking, probably from glare his hair was creating.
20 minutes later…
Seven very neatly rolled pigs in a blanket lay on a small plate, four Gundam pilots sat around the table that the pigs sat upon. The four pilots sat staring at the eighth partially eaten pig and the fifth Gundam pilot, both laying on the floor unmoving.
Shaking his head, amazed, Heero looked at Trowa.
“How can you screw up pigs in a blanket?”
Trowa just sighed, head in his hands, ‘no lovin’ tonight….’
Owari
Quatre: Who passed out?
Emmy: My initial thought was that it should be Duo,
Duo: What’d I do to deserve that?!
Emmy: You weren’t there to protect yourself. But, as I was about to say, Hee-chan would kill me so I left it open to anyone besides Trowa and Heero. Though I like the thought of it being Wufei.
Wufei: What did I do?
Emmy: I just don’t like you right now.