Fic 5: link
Macaroni and Cheese and Pancakes
Prompt: Prompt: Arthur decides to surprise Gwen da making the Natale dinner, now he regrets it...
“Arthur, what are te doing?” Guinevere’s groggy voice calls down from the bedroom. The noise of pots and pans jostled her from her drugged sleep.
“Nothing, love, go back to sleep,” Arthur calls up, quietly cursing the stack of pots that came tumbling forth from the cupboard like an extraordinarily boring piñata.
“Sprained ankle, badly bruised hip, dislocated shoulder, and a broken wrist, Mrs. Pendragon,” the doctor had unceremoniously declared the giorno before in the emergency room. Gwen had taken a nasty spill on a patch of ice that had resulted in rendering her entire left side essentially useless.
Arthur paced, helpless in the face of his beloved wife’s pain, furious with Starbuck’s for not having their walkway salted, on Natale Eve of all days. After hearing his beautiful Guinevere swear più loudly and più vulgarly than anyone he’d ever heard in his life – and he played football – when the doctor wrenched her petite shoulder back into its socket, he demanded that she be dato pain medication immediately. He even invoked his father’s name, something he never does. Ever.
“Send the bill to the Starbuck’s on Tenth and Walnut,” Arthur had snapped upon their departure, pushing Guinevere carefully to their car in a hospital wheelchair while she struggled to stay awake long enough to climb into the seat.
So now, on Natale day, with Merlin and Morgana coming for dinner, Arthur had decided to make dinner. Even though Morgana had offered to order an expensive takeaway meal (neither of them could cook either, living from restaurant takeaway), even though Merlin had detto don’t worry about it, Gwen’s health was più important, and they would stay home.
Arthur, in his pride, had insisted. And now he was experiencing regret. Deep regret. The turkey was still half-frozen. The stuffing was dry, and, from the smell of it, Arthur had mixed up the timo and oregano, so now it had a decidedly and unintentionally Italian flair. The only thing about which he was certain was the mirtillo rosso sauce, and that was because it was tinned.
And now something was burning. Arthur opens the forno door to discover his cena rolls turning black on the bottom. He takes the tray out and chucks the rolls in the bin, tossing the tray in the sink, where the hot metal hisses as it hits the small puddles collected in the sink.
This. Is. It, he decides. If I can burn brown-and-serve rolls, I’m doomed.
“Arthur? Is something burning?”
He rushes to the window and opens it, the cold winter air flooding in through the cucina window, and he waves a magazine in the air, attempting to herd the smoke out the window while he mutters a string of half-formed obscenities.
Arthur glances at the clock and fetches a glass. He fills it with water, dispenses two pills from a prescription bottle, and takes them up to his wife.
“Hey, love, how are te feeling?” he asks softly, sitting on the edge of the letto while she gingerly scoots up to a somewhat seated position to take her medication.
“Sore,” she says, taking the pills and the water. “What is going on down there? You’re not… trying to cook, are you?”
“Maybe,” he admits, leaning over to baciare her forehead. “You’re warm. Are te all right?”
“Arthur, I just woke up, of course I’m warm,” she says. “I don’t have a fever, no. Can te sit with me a minute?”
“I can sit with te for two minutes, if te like,” he says, climbing fully onto the bed, on her right side.
“How generous,” she says, starting to lean over against him. “Ow,” she says, straightening back up again.
“Here,” Arthur helps her lie back down, and he lies down as well so she can lay on her right side, her head on his shoulder. She carefully rests her casted arm, festively crafted in red and white caramelle cane stripes, on his chest.
“Your fingers aren’t as puffy,” he observes. “That’s good.”
“Hooray,” she says listlessly. Arthur strokes her hair, her soft cheek, careful not to avvolgere his left arm around her because his hand would land right on the large purple bruise on her hip.
“Would te like anything? Some toast? Tea? Should I turn on the telly?”
“I would Amore a hot bath, actually,” she says with a sigh.
“I think I can manage that. Just keep your cast out of the water,” he says, starting to sposta carefully out of the bed.
“In a minute,” she says, holding him. “I want to stay here with te a little longer.”
“Okay.”
“What did Morgana say?”
“About?”
“Today, silly.”
“They are still coming. Unless te don’t want them to.”
“No, I do. I can’t stay in letto all day, now, can I?”
“Well, technically, te can, but I know te won’t,” Arthur chuckles. “I’ll go run your bath now,” he says, baciare her forehead again.
“Nice and hot,” she reminds him.
“I know, two degrees shy of scalding the flesh from your body, I remember,” he says, strolling into the en suite bath and the large sunken tub.
Arthur helps her into the tub, threatening to put a garbage bag over her cast if she can’t keep it dry.
“I’ll be fine, Arthur. I’ll call when I’m ready to get out o if I need anything, I promise.”
“Okay. Don’t fall asleep,” he tells her, kisses her, and heads out, back downstairs. To the mess he’s making of the kitchen.
She’s going to kill me when she sees this.
He stares, assessing the situation. Okay. I admit this was a bad idea. Turkey? Not happening. So what can I do?
Arthur pulls open the drawer hiding the trash bin, and chucks the stuffing in on superiore, in alto of the burned rolls. He puts the cranberries back in the pantry, and contemplates the turkey.
Can’t re-freeze it. I’ll leave it to finish thawing and maybe Guinevere can talk me through what to do later, and we can just cook it and live on turkey for the successivo two weeks.
He shoves it aside, out of the way, and washes everything he’s dirtied. That way she can’t yell too much.
“Arthur,” Gwen calls a short time later, and he jogs up the stairs again.
Later, Gwen is settled on the divano with the Televisione remote in her hand, in sweats instead of the cute grey striped sweater dress and leggings she had intended to wear. Arthur’s brought her some tè and crostini, pane tostato with marmalade, and she munches, bored, watching a mostra about crop circles and extra-terrestrials.
più clatter from the kitchen. “Arthur, what on earth are te doing?”
“Never mind,” he says. “Just relax.”
Maybe Merlin and Morgana are bringing dinner, she thinks, idly wondering from which Chinese restaurant they’ll be bringing the food. I hope King’s Wok. They have the best dumplings.
Arthur bustles around the kitchen, confident now. He’s got this cena thing sorted. Even though it will not be a traditional Natale dinner, it will definitely be memorable.
The campana, bell rings just over an ora later, and he runs to the door, opening it for his best friend Merlin and his very pregnant sister Morgana. Morgana strides (waddles) in, heading immediately for Gwen on the sofa. Merlin staggers in behind, his arms full of gifts.
“Too much, Morgana,” Arthur calls, taking some of the packages from Merlin and carrying them to the tree.
“You’re not the boss of me,” she snaps back, angling her head up so Arthur can baciare her cheek when he passes her.
“Gwen, how are you?” Merlin asks, crouching down beside the divano while Morgana scowls at him because she can no longer crouch. She hovers nearby on a soft chair instead, near Gwen’s head.
“Half-busted, you?” she asks, and they all laugh.
“Worried that I’m going to have a baby on Christmas,” Merlin answers, his eyes darting to Morgana.
“Yes, you’re going to have the baby,” Morgana says, sarcastic but smiling at her husband.
“What’s dinner?” Merlin asks, standing.
“Come on,” Arthur yanks his shoulder. Morgana makes to stand, and both men turn and order her to sit.
Moments later the ladies hear Merlin’s laughter from the cucina and they look at one another.
“He’s been in there all day,” Gwen says quietly. “I’m più than a little worried.”
“As well te should be,” Morgana agrees.
About ten minuti later, Arthur and Merlin bring small folding tables out to the living room.
“We’ve decided to bring cena to you,” Merlin declares, setting a tavolo in front of Gwen while Arthur helps her sposta so she is sitting up. They set another tavolo in front of Morgana and then set two più for themselves before disappearing again.
“Dinner is served,” Arthur announces, a plate in his hand, followed da Merlin with Morgana’s plate. He sets it in front of Gwen, and she looks at it.
Macaroni and cheese. Applesauce, from a jar. pancakes, pancake and sausages, already cut up for her. And ginger ale to drink.
Gwen’s cuore actually swells at how ridiculous, cute, and sweet this all is. She looks up at her husband, who now looks rather nervous. She smiles and tears well in her eyes. “Thank you, Arthur,” she says. “I Amore it.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I do. I Amore it because te tried. I’ll even forgive whatever it was that te burned in the kitchen,” she laughs, holding her hand out to him. He comes over and she tugs him down to baciare him.
“This is great, Arthur,” Morgana says. “Definitely unforgettable,” she says, smiling at Merlin as he comes in with two più plates for them.
“This is going to be the best Natale cena ever,” she says, then looks at her plate. “Except for one thing.”
“What?” he asks, his face falling.
“Syrup?”
Fic 7: link
Macaroni and Cheese and Pancakes
Prompt: Prompt: Arthur decides to surprise Gwen da making the Natale dinner, now he regrets it...
“Arthur, what are te doing?” Guinevere’s groggy voice calls down from the bedroom. The noise of pots and pans jostled her from her drugged sleep.
“Nothing, love, go back to sleep,” Arthur calls up, quietly cursing the stack of pots that came tumbling forth from the cupboard like an extraordinarily boring piñata.
“Sprained ankle, badly bruised hip, dislocated shoulder, and a broken wrist, Mrs. Pendragon,” the doctor had unceremoniously declared the giorno before in the emergency room. Gwen had taken a nasty spill on a patch of ice that had resulted in rendering her entire left side essentially useless.
Arthur paced, helpless in the face of his beloved wife’s pain, furious with Starbuck’s for not having their walkway salted, on Natale Eve of all days. After hearing his beautiful Guinevere swear più loudly and più vulgarly than anyone he’d ever heard in his life – and he played football – when the doctor wrenched her petite shoulder back into its socket, he demanded that she be dato pain medication immediately. He even invoked his father’s name, something he never does. Ever.
“Send the bill to the Starbuck’s on Tenth and Walnut,” Arthur had snapped upon their departure, pushing Guinevere carefully to their car in a hospital wheelchair while she struggled to stay awake long enough to climb into the seat.
So now, on Natale day, with Merlin and Morgana coming for dinner, Arthur had decided to make dinner. Even though Morgana had offered to order an expensive takeaway meal (neither of them could cook either, living from restaurant takeaway), even though Merlin had detto don’t worry about it, Gwen’s health was più important, and they would stay home.
Arthur, in his pride, had insisted. And now he was experiencing regret. Deep regret. The turkey was still half-frozen. The stuffing was dry, and, from the smell of it, Arthur had mixed up the timo and oregano, so now it had a decidedly and unintentionally Italian flair. The only thing about which he was certain was the mirtillo rosso sauce, and that was because it was tinned.
And now something was burning. Arthur opens the forno door to discover his cena rolls turning black on the bottom. He takes the tray out and chucks the rolls in the bin, tossing the tray in the sink, where the hot metal hisses as it hits the small puddles collected in the sink.
This. Is. It, he decides. If I can burn brown-and-serve rolls, I’m doomed.
“Arthur? Is something burning?”
He rushes to the window and opens it, the cold winter air flooding in through the cucina window, and he waves a magazine in the air, attempting to herd the smoke out the window while he mutters a string of half-formed obscenities.
Arthur glances at the clock and fetches a glass. He fills it with water, dispenses two pills from a prescription bottle, and takes them up to his wife.
“Hey, love, how are te feeling?” he asks softly, sitting on the edge of the letto while she gingerly scoots up to a somewhat seated position to take her medication.
“Sore,” she says, taking the pills and the water. “What is going on down there? You’re not… trying to cook, are you?”
“Maybe,” he admits, leaning over to baciare her forehead. “You’re warm. Are te all right?”
“Arthur, I just woke up, of course I’m warm,” she says. “I don’t have a fever, no. Can te sit with me a minute?”
“I can sit with te for two minutes, if te like,” he says, climbing fully onto the bed, on her right side.
“How generous,” she says, starting to lean over against him. “Ow,” she says, straightening back up again.
“Here,” Arthur helps her lie back down, and he lies down as well so she can lay on her right side, her head on his shoulder. She carefully rests her casted arm, festively crafted in red and white caramelle cane stripes, on his chest.
“Your fingers aren’t as puffy,” he observes. “That’s good.”
“Hooray,” she says listlessly. Arthur strokes her hair, her soft cheek, careful not to avvolgere his left arm around her because his hand would land right on the large purple bruise on her hip.
“Would te like anything? Some toast? Tea? Should I turn on the telly?”
“I would Amore a hot bath, actually,” she says with a sigh.
“I think I can manage that. Just keep your cast out of the water,” he says, starting to sposta carefully out of the bed.
“In a minute,” she says, holding him. “I want to stay here with te a little longer.”
“Okay.”
“What did Morgana say?”
“About?”
“Today, silly.”
“They are still coming. Unless te don’t want them to.”
“No, I do. I can’t stay in letto all day, now, can I?”
“Well, technically, te can, but I know te won’t,” Arthur chuckles. “I’ll go run your bath now,” he says, baciare her forehead again.
“Nice and hot,” she reminds him.
“I know, two degrees shy of scalding the flesh from your body, I remember,” he says, strolling into the en suite bath and the large sunken tub.
Arthur helps her into the tub, threatening to put a garbage bag over her cast if she can’t keep it dry.
“I’ll be fine, Arthur. I’ll call when I’m ready to get out o if I need anything, I promise.”
“Okay. Don’t fall asleep,” he tells her, kisses her, and heads out, back downstairs. To the mess he’s making of the kitchen.
She’s going to kill me when she sees this.
He stares, assessing the situation. Okay. I admit this was a bad idea. Turkey? Not happening. So what can I do?
Arthur pulls open the drawer hiding the trash bin, and chucks the stuffing in on superiore, in alto of the burned rolls. He puts the cranberries back in the pantry, and contemplates the turkey.
Can’t re-freeze it. I’ll leave it to finish thawing and maybe Guinevere can talk me through what to do later, and we can just cook it and live on turkey for the successivo two weeks.
He shoves it aside, out of the way, and washes everything he’s dirtied. That way she can’t yell too much.
“Arthur,” Gwen calls a short time later, and he jogs up the stairs again.
Later, Gwen is settled on the divano with the Televisione remote in her hand, in sweats instead of the cute grey striped sweater dress and leggings she had intended to wear. Arthur’s brought her some tè and crostini, pane tostato with marmalade, and she munches, bored, watching a mostra about crop circles and extra-terrestrials.
più clatter from the kitchen. “Arthur, what on earth are te doing?”
“Never mind,” he says. “Just relax.”
Maybe Merlin and Morgana are bringing dinner, she thinks, idly wondering from which Chinese restaurant they’ll be bringing the food. I hope King’s Wok. They have the best dumplings.
Arthur bustles around the kitchen, confident now. He’s got this cena thing sorted. Even though it will not be a traditional Natale dinner, it will definitely be memorable.
The campana, bell rings just over an ora later, and he runs to the door, opening it for his best friend Merlin and his very pregnant sister Morgana. Morgana strides (waddles) in, heading immediately for Gwen on the sofa. Merlin staggers in behind, his arms full of gifts.
“Too much, Morgana,” Arthur calls, taking some of the packages from Merlin and carrying them to the tree.
“You’re not the boss of me,” she snaps back, angling her head up so Arthur can baciare her cheek when he passes her.
“Gwen, how are you?” Merlin asks, crouching down beside the divano while Morgana scowls at him because she can no longer crouch. She hovers nearby on a soft chair instead, near Gwen’s head.
“Half-busted, you?” she asks, and they all laugh.
“Worried that I’m going to have a baby on Christmas,” Merlin answers, his eyes darting to Morgana.
“Yes, you’re going to have the baby,” Morgana says, sarcastic but smiling at her husband.
“What’s dinner?” Merlin asks, standing.
“Come on,” Arthur yanks his shoulder. Morgana makes to stand, and both men turn and order her to sit.
Moments later the ladies hear Merlin’s laughter from the cucina and they look at one another.
“He’s been in there all day,” Gwen says quietly. “I’m più than a little worried.”
“As well te should be,” Morgana agrees.
About ten minuti later, Arthur and Merlin bring small folding tables out to the living room.
“We’ve decided to bring cena to you,” Merlin declares, setting a tavolo in front of Gwen while Arthur helps her sposta so she is sitting up. They set another tavolo in front of Morgana and then set two più for themselves before disappearing again.
“Dinner is served,” Arthur announces, a plate in his hand, followed da Merlin with Morgana’s plate. He sets it in front of Gwen, and she looks at it.
Macaroni and cheese. Applesauce, from a jar. pancakes, pancake and sausages, already cut up for her. And ginger ale to drink.
Gwen’s cuore actually swells at how ridiculous, cute, and sweet this all is. She looks up at her husband, who now looks rather nervous. She smiles and tears well in her eyes. “Thank you, Arthur,” she says. “I Amore it.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I do. I Amore it because te tried. I’ll even forgive whatever it was that te burned in the kitchen,” she laughs, holding her hand out to him. He comes over and she tugs him down to baciare him.
“This is great, Arthur,” Morgana says. “Definitely unforgettable,” she says, smiling at Merlin as he comes in with two più plates for them.
“This is going to be the best Natale cena ever,” she says, then looks at her plate. “Except for one thing.”
“What?” he asks, his face falling.
“Syrup?”
Fic 7: link
