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Title: The Art of Cooking
Fandom: Tangled
Pairing: Rapunzel/Flynn
Rating: S for Squeaky Clean
Word Count: 2075
Summary: Showing off his smolder ™ and escaping the Royal Guard may be easy for Eugene, but the same cannot be said about cooking.
Author's notes: This is written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
abarero who kindly made a bid on my offer over at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
help_nz . She wanted a post-movie story focusing on Rapunzel teaching Eugene how to cook...hopefully this works. :D :D
Fandom: Tangled
Pairing: Rapunzel/Flynn
Rating: S for Squeaky Clean
Word Count: 2075
Summary: Showing off his smolder ™ and escaping the Royal Guard may be easy for Eugene, but the same cannot be said about cooking.
Author's notes: This is written for
abarero who kindly made a bid on my offer over at help_nz . She wanted a post-movie story focusing on Rapunzel teaching Eugene how to cook...hopefully this works. :D :DI will not laugh.
I will not laugh.
Despite my attempt to remain stolid, a giggle slips through my lips. I try my best to mask it by coughing, but I know the man in front of me isn’t fooled. Eugene glowers at me, but, despite his frustration, I find myself highly amused by this situation.
I turn away from him and look in the bowl. The batter is still fine, I observe with a smile. Forcing myself not to let anymore giggles slip out of my mouth, I turn back to face Eugene who is holding a shattered eggshell in his hands with the yolk dripping from his fingers.
And I laugh again.
“Remind me again why you are trying to teach me how to cook?” he grumbles.
I reach behind the counter and hold out a rag for him to take. With a disgusted flick of his hands, he tosses the ruined egg into the bin that holds the garbage that is sitting under the counter. He snatches the cloth from my hands, frowning deeply.
I patiently wait for him to finish cleaning his hands before I answer. “Because, Eugene, you are the one asked me to teach you,” I remind him sweetly. “Something about needing to find something to do to stay out of trouble...” I trail off as I pick up another egg from the counter.
It’s a good thing the Snugly Duckling is so well-stocked with ingredients, I think, knowing how many eggs Eugene has already ruined. “Now, try it again. This time don’t hit it so hard against the bowl.”
He scowls as he takes the egg from my hand but he does as I request. I hold my breath as he taps the shell against the bowl. Fortunately, this time Eugene remembers that an eggshell is not as thick as a coconut and does not repeat his earlier mistakes. With a wide cocky grin, he pulls the shells apart and watches the egg drop into the bowl.
I relax as the most difficult part of the recipe is over.
Although, I think with a slight frown, it did take Eugene nine times to figure out how to crack an egg properly. Perhaps, it would be better if I measure the flour out myself.
“I’ll do this part,” I offer, reaching over the bowl to the large canister.
“It’s just flour,” he grumbles. “I think I can do it.”
I arch my eyebrow at him. Now he wants to take an active part in cooking? I hold the canister out for him to take. “Go ahead, Eugene.”
Apparently he doesn’t expect for me to assign the task to him. He stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet.
What is it about cooking that made the normally unflappable Flynn Rider into a bundle of nerves?
“Nah, it’s ok. I’ll just watch,” he replies, eying the measuring cup suspiciously.
Carefully, I measure out the flour in a cup and hand it to him. “Just add this to the bowl and mix it together,” I encourage calmly.
He takes the cup out of my hand and holds it over the bowl. I cringe slightly at the ungraceful way he lets the flour plop into the mixture. Maybe I had overestimated how easy this recipe was going to be. He grabs the wooden spoon from the counter and starts stirring vigorously.
I reach out towards him, trying to still his hand. “You might want to watch out, Eugene. If you mix too hard the flour--”
It is too late.
The flour flops out of the bowl and all over the front of Eugene.
This time I don’t even try to smother the laughter that is overcoming me.
Eugene looks down and yelps at the sight of his favorite leather britches covered in powdery flour. “That’s it! I’m done cooking!” He thrusts the bowl in my hands. “It’s all yours, Goldie.”
Before I can respond, the floor starts shaking slightly. Hookhand approaches the bar counter and looks over to where Eugene and I are standing. “Everything alright in here?”
I can only imagine what he is thinking as he looks around at his beloved kitchen, now covered in cracked eggshells and spilled flour. He was kind enough to let us practice cooking after a rather…terrible attempt at the castle caused the Royal Chef to request that I keep Eugine out of the Royal kitchen. I agreed, but needed to find somewhere I could show Eugine how to cook. One day, inspiration struck and I asked Hookhand if, while the Snugly Duckling was closed, I could teach Eugine and he readily agreed. Now, I am positive that he is regretting that decision.
“Oh yeah, it’s nothing but fun in here,” Eugene replies dryly. He reaches down and tries to knock the offensive powder off his pants, but the flour is stubbornly clinging to them.
The urge to laugh is growing again. I force my mirth away; it is obvious that Eugene is not enjoying this cooking session as much as I am. I flash Hookhand an apologetic smile as I set the bowl back on the counter. “He was rather eager in his stirring,” I explain. “But don’t worry, we’ll get it all cleaned up before we leave.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Princess,” Hookhand assures me quickly. “This place has seen far worse than Flynn’s cooking.” He lets out a hearty laugh and I am left with little choice other than to join in.
Eugene is not amused.
“Har har har,” he huffs, glaring at the two of us. “Now if you two would excuse me, I’ve got other things to do.”
I step in his path, blocking his way. “You’re not going anywhere until this recipe is finished,” I say firmly.
Eugene looks helplessly at Hookhand who shrugs. “I’m gonna go back to practicing,” he says, nodding towards the piano. “Let me know if you need me to keep him in line, Princess.”
A smile pass over my lips. When it comes to Eugene, no one can keep him in line the way I can. Still, I appreciate the moral support.
I hand him the wooden spoon and point at the bowl. “Mix the ingredients.”
He looks at Hookhand who is still watching us closely, despite the fact he is playing the piano, before he reluctantly agrees.
This time he is much more cautious in his stirring. In fact, I notice, the batter is barely moving. Collecting my resolve, I stand behind him. Slowly, I reach around and gently lay my hand on top of his calloused one. “Not quite. Try stirring like this,” I say as I watch our movements over his shoulder.
Despite my naivety, I do know what my presence does to Eugene. He stills at the feel of my breath on his neck and, I note with some satisfaction, that all of his complaints have fled. In fact, it almost seems as if he is enjoying himself.
After a minute or two, the mixture is finally looking the way it should. I step away from him and smile. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
He turns and faces me. “That was a dirty trick, Goldie,” he says, pointing the dripping spoon at me.
I guide his hand back over the bowl as a large drop of batter slides off the edge of the spoon. “Words weren’t helping much,” I reply.
I could almost see the numerous responses that were running through his mind, but in the end, Eugene says none of them. Instead, he changes the subject. “You never did tell me what we’re making,” he comments, looking at the off-white mixture in the bowl.
“I didn’t?” I feign my ignorance.
Of course I knew that I hadn’t told him. I had been purposely avoiding telling him what exactly we were making until the right moment.
Like now.
Before I get a chance to tell him, he makes a sour face. “It’s not haggis, is it? Did you know that it’s made with--”
“Yes,” I interrupt quickly before he can ruin the moment with talk of sheep innards. “I know what it is, but, no, we’re not making it.”
“OK, then what are we making?”
As way of answering, I pull out a flat plate with a half dozen tea cups on it.
Eugene frowns as he moves his gaze from the cups and then to the mixture we just made. “We’re going to drink it?” he asks dubiously.
“No.” I set the plate next to the bowl. I lean close to him and place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “We’re making cupcakes.”
Eugene captures me an intense look and swallows thickly. “Did you say cupcakes?” he whispers hopefully.
Undoubtedly, he was reliving that incredible, wonderful, marvelous day--my eighteenth birthday--when we had spent the day together in the kingdom. The cupcake we had snuck together, tucked away in the little doorway, was a special memory for the both of us.
“Yes,” I say, pulling him back to the present. “I did.”
A wide grin spreads over his lips. “They are my favorite dessert.”
I grin. “Mine too.”
Fortunately for the well-being of the kitchen, we fill up the cups without any incident. I need to remember that Eugene is a much better, and cooperative, student when he’s feeling smitten. When the cups are filled with the batter, I walk across the kitchen and put the cups in the wood-burning oven.
“How long do we have to wait?” he asks, pouting slightly.
“Not long,” I assure him. With a sneaky smile, I reach down to the shelf where there are cooling cupcakes already waiting for us. “I came early and made these. I thought you deserved a reward if you actually managed to finish the recipe.”
“Is there frosting?” The hope in his voice is unmistakable.
“Of course.” What is a cupcake without frosting, I wonder. Merrily, I walk to the other side of the kitchen where a bowl of frosting has been patiently waiting for its debut.
I hand Eugene a dull knife from the counter and grab one of my own. “Just a little frosting goes a long way,” I say as I spread a small dab of icing and spread it on top.
Eugene, however, has different a different idea. After he puts down the knife I gave him, he dips the entire cupcake upside down in the thick frosting and swirls it in the sweet concoction. Seconds later, he lifts the cake away from the frosting, not seeming to mind how it drips down its side and his fingers.
“You can never have enough frosting, Goldie.”
Together, we continue icing the dozen little cakes. Frosting cupcakes with Eugene is more messy, and fun, than I could have ever imagined. When we finish, I step away from the mini cakes and admire our work. They look even better than the one we had in the village square.
Eugene holds out one of the cupcakes he has iced for me to taste. “I figure you should have the first bite,” he says, uncharacteristically generous. I’ve seen him at the dessert table during the royal feasts; sweets are usually his weakness.
Unwilling to let this rare opportunity pass, I take the cupcake from him and take a big bite. Yes, it has too much frosting on it, but since Eugene made it for me, I think that it’s perfect.
He looks at me for a second before saying, “Come here, Goldie.”
With an inquisitive look, I arch my eyebrow, but do as he requests.
I hold my breath as Eugene reaches up and rubs his thumb above my top lip. When he pulls his finger away, I can see a small glob of frosting on it. Holding my gaze, he lifts it up to his lips and his tongue sticks out to lick up the sweet topping.
“That’s what I thought,” he says softly with a smile growing across his face.
“What?” I whisper.
“Somehow you made the frosting taste even sweeter,” he answers with a Flynn Rider smolder.
I lean into to kiss him, but at the last second he pulls away, sniffing the air.
“Um, Goldie...I think we might have burned the cupcakes.”
Maybe, I think as I rush to pull the smoking cakes out of the oven, I’ll try to teach Eugene how to sew next week. It certainly can't cause as much trouble as cooking.
I will not laugh.
Despite my attempt to remain stolid, a giggle slips through my lips. I try my best to mask it by coughing, but I know the man in front of me isn’t fooled. Eugene glowers at me, but, despite his frustration, I find myself highly amused by this situation.
I turn away from him and look in the bowl. The batter is still fine, I observe with a smile. Forcing myself not to let anymore giggles slip out of my mouth, I turn back to face Eugene who is holding a shattered eggshell in his hands with the yolk dripping from his fingers.
And I laugh again.
“Remind me again why you are trying to teach me how to cook?” he grumbles.
I reach behind the counter and hold out a rag for him to take. With a disgusted flick of his hands, he tosses the ruined egg into the bin that holds the garbage that is sitting under the counter. He snatches the cloth from my hands, frowning deeply.
I patiently wait for him to finish cleaning his hands before I answer. “Because, Eugene, you are the one asked me to teach you,” I remind him sweetly. “Something about needing to find something to do to stay out of trouble...” I trail off as I pick up another egg from the counter.
It’s a good thing the Snugly Duckling is so well-stocked with ingredients, I think, knowing how many eggs Eugene has already ruined. “Now, try it again. This time don’t hit it so hard against the bowl.”
He scowls as he takes the egg from my hand but he does as I request. I hold my breath as he taps the shell against the bowl. Fortunately, this time Eugene remembers that an eggshell is not as thick as a coconut and does not repeat his earlier mistakes. With a wide cocky grin, he pulls the shells apart and watches the egg drop into the bowl.
I relax as the most difficult part of the recipe is over.
Although, I think with a slight frown, it did take Eugene nine times to figure out how to crack an egg properly. Perhaps, it would be better if I measure the flour out myself.
“I’ll do this part,” I offer, reaching over the bowl to the large canister.
“It’s just flour,” he grumbles. “I think I can do it.”
I arch my eyebrow at him. Now he wants to take an active part in cooking? I hold the canister out for him to take. “Go ahead, Eugene.”
Apparently he doesn’t expect for me to assign the task to him. He stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet.
What is it about cooking that made the normally unflappable Flynn Rider into a bundle of nerves?
“Nah, it’s ok. I’ll just watch,” he replies, eying the measuring cup suspiciously.
Carefully, I measure out the flour in a cup and hand it to him. “Just add this to the bowl and mix it together,” I encourage calmly.
He takes the cup out of my hand and holds it over the bowl. I cringe slightly at the ungraceful way he lets the flour plop into the mixture. Maybe I had overestimated how easy this recipe was going to be. He grabs the wooden spoon from the counter and starts stirring vigorously.
I reach out towards him, trying to still his hand. “You might want to watch out, Eugene. If you mix too hard the flour--”
It is too late.
The flour flops out of the bowl and all over the front of Eugene.
This time I don’t even try to smother the laughter that is overcoming me.
Eugene looks down and yelps at the sight of his favorite leather britches covered in powdery flour. “That’s it! I’m done cooking!” He thrusts the bowl in my hands. “It’s all yours, Goldie.”
Before I can respond, the floor starts shaking slightly. Hookhand approaches the bar counter and looks over to where Eugene and I are standing. “Everything alright in here?”
I can only imagine what he is thinking as he looks around at his beloved kitchen, now covered in cracked eggshells and spilled flour. He was kind enough to let us practice cooking after a rather…terrible attempt at the castle caused the Royal Chef to request that I keep Eugine out of the Royal kitchen. I agreed, but needed to find somewhere I could show Eugine how to cook. One day, inspiration struck and I asked Hookhand if, while the Snugly Duckling was closed, I could teach Eugine and he readily agreed. Now, I am positive that he is regretting that decision.
“Oh yeah, it’s nothing but fun in here,” Eugene replies dryly. He reaches down and tries to knock the offensive powder off his pants, but the flour is stubbornly clinging to them.
The urge to laugh is growing again. I force my mirth away; it is obvious that Eugene is not enjoying this cooking session as much as I am. I flash Hookhand an apologetic smile as I set the bowl back on the counter. “He was rather eager in his stirring,” I explain. “But don’t worry, we’ll get it all cleaned up before we leave.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Princess,” Hookhand assures me quickly. “This place has seen far worse than Flynn’s cooking.” He lets out a hearty laugh and I am left with little choice other than to join in.
Eugene is not amused.
“Har har har,” he huffs, glaring at the two of us. “Now if you two would excuse me, I’ve got other things to do.”
I step in his path, blocking his way. “You’re not going anywhere until this recipe is finished,” I say firmly.
Eugene looks helplessly at Hookhand who shrugs. “I’m gonna go back to practicing,” he says, nodding towards the piano. “Let me know if you need me to keep him in line, Princess.”
A smile pass over my lips. When it comes to Eugene, no one can keep him in line the way I can. Still, I appreciate the moral support.
I hand him the wooden spoon and point at the bowl. “Mix the ingredients.”
He looks at Hookhand who is still watching us closely, despite the fact he is playing the piano, before he reluctantly agrees.
This time he is much more cautious in his stirring. In fact, I notice, the batter is barely moving. Collecting my resolve, I stand behind him. Slowly, I reach around and gently lay my hand on top of his calloused one. “Not quite. Try stirring like this,” I say as I watch our movements over his shoulder.
Despite my naivety, I do know what my presence does to Eugene. He stills at the feel of my breath on his neck and, I note with some satisfaction, that all of his complaints have fled. In fact, it almost seems as if he is enjoying himself.
After a minute or two, the mixture is finally looking the way it should. I step away from him and smile. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
He turns and faces me. “That was a dirty trick, Goldie,” he says, pointing the dripping spoon at me.
I guide his hand back over the bowl as a large drop of batter slides off the edge of the spoon. “Words weren’t helping much,” I reply.
I could almost see the numerous responses that were running through his mind, but in the end, Eugene says none of them. Instead, he changes the subject. “You never did tell me what we’re making,” he comments, looking at the off-white mixture in the bowl.
“I didn’t?” I feign my ignorance.
Of course I knew that I hadn’t told him. I had been purposely avoiding telling him what exactly we were making until the right moment.
Like now.
Before I get a chance to tell him, he makes a sour face. “It’s not haggis, is it? Did you know that it’s made with--”
“Yes,” I interrupt quickly before he can ruin the moment with talk of sheep innards. “I know what it is, but, no, we’re not making it.”
“OK, then what are we making?”
As way of answering, I pull out a flat plate with a half dozen tea cups on it.
Eugene frowns as he moves his gaze from the cups and then to the mixture we just made. “We’re going to drink it?” he asks dubiously.
“No.” I set the plate next to the bowl. I lean close to him and place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “We’re making cupcakes.”
Eugene captures me an intense look and swallows thickly. “Did you say cupcakes?” he whispers hopefully.
Undoubtedly, he was reliving that incredible, wonderful, marvelous day--my eighteenth birthday--when we had spent the day together in the kingdom. The cupcake we had snuck together, tucked away in the little doorway, was a special memory for the both of us.
“Yes,” I say, pulling him back to the present. “I did.”
A wide grin spreads over his lips. “They are my favorite dessert.”
I grin. “Mine too.”
Fortunately for the well-being of the kitchen, we fill up the cups without any incident. I need to remember that Eugene is a much better, and cooperative, student when he’s feeling smitten. When the cups are filled with the batter, I walk across the kitchen and put the cups in the wood-burning oven.
“How long do we have to wait?” he asks, pouting slightly.
“Not long,” I assure him. With a sneaky smile, I reach down to the shelf where there are cooling cupcakes already waiting for us. “I came early and made these. I thought you deserved a reward if you actually managed to finish the recipe.”
“Is there frosting?” The hope in his voice is unmistakable.
“Of course.” What is a cupcake without frosting, I wonder. Merrily, I walk to the other side of the kitchen where a bowl of frosting has been patiently waiting for its debut.
I hand Eugene a dull knife from the counter and grab one of my own. “Just a little frosting goes a long way,” I say as I spread a small dab of icing and spread it on top.
Eugene, however, has different a different idea. After he puts down the knife I gave him, he dips the entire cupcake upside down in the thick frosting and swirls it in the sweet concoction. Seconds later, he lifts the cake away from the frosting, not seeming to mind how it drips down its side and his fingers.
“You can never have enough frosting, Goldie.”
Together, we continue icing the dozen little cakes. Frosting cupcakes with Eugene is more messy, and fun, than I could have ever imagined. When we finish, I step away from the mini cakes and admire our work. They look even better than the one we had in the village square.
Eugene holds out one of the cupcakes he has iced for me to taste. “I figure you should have the first bite,” he says, uncharacteristically generous. I’ve seen him at the dessert table during the royal feasts; sweets are usually his weakness.
Unwilling to let this rare opportunity pass, I take the cupcake from him and take a big bite. Yes, it has too much frosting on it, but since Eugene made it for me, I think that it’s perfect.
He looks at me for a second before saying, “Come here, Goldie.”
With an inquisitive look, I arch my eyebrow, but do as he requests.
I hold my breath as Eugene reaches up and rubs his thumb above my top lip. When he pulls his finger away, I can see a small glob of frosting on it. Holding my gaze, he lifts it up to his lips and his tongue sticks out to lick up the sweet topping.
“That’s what I thought,” he says softly with a smile growing across his face.
“What?” I whisper.
“Somehow you made the frosting taste even sweeter,” he answers with a Flynn Rider smolder.
I lean into to kiss him, but at the last second he pulls away, sniffing the air.
“Um, Goldie...I think we might have burned the cupcakes.”
Maybe, I think as I rush to pull the smoking cakes out of the oven, I’ll try to teach Eugene how to sew next week. It certainly can't cause as much trouble as cooking.
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