fandomhighdorms | 6th Floor Kitchen, Saturday Morning

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6th Floor Kitchen, Saturday Morning

Waking up with an insane hairy idiot in his closet had not been Arthur's (or England's or UK's, whatever name you chose to pick) first choice for an agreeable morning. Most upsetting.

He also had no idea where he was, but it was likely he had simply passed out in the pub last night and forgotten about it. Whatever the case, he was peckish. A good breakfast would do him well.

And so he found himself in the kitchen, boiling water for the tea, mixing up dough for the scones and ~~badly burning~~ cooking sausages.

All be warned. The kitchen was full of hazardous materials this morning.

[[ so I seem to hate myself. arthur is now arthur kirkland, anthromorphic representation of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland from Hetalia. post is open. mocking myself has ensued; and i swear i won't mention this again, but he looks exactly like arthur, just with thicker brows and green eyes. hush. ]]

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Death was immortal, she was eternal, inevitable, unchanging, she ... had a much nicer rack than normal.

Shame crossing universes had, you know. COST HER HER FACE.

She glided into the common room as silently as any tall woman with a skeletal face and rocking curves under a purple hooded cloak would manage.

"You're making breakfast," she observed, and even that banality might have seemed creepy considering the source. "Hello."

Well, now. Had a spirit just entered his kitchen? It wasn't a very cute spirit, but it did have those curves.

"Good morning. Would you like some?" England asked, painting himself the picture of a perfect gentleman. "Do sit down!"

Death, we advise you to run away now.

Death pondered the food and the new surroundings. "I'm not sure," she said as she dropped into a chair that let her lounge glamorously. "I don't eat often."

Which might have been for the best.

"Do you know where we are?" she asked. Of course, she knew everything, but she was having a hard time putting her finger on that detail at the moment.

England poked and prodded at the stove. "Come on," he goaded, "Warm up!"

Very encouraging. He leaned back up. "We seem to be in a castle." ... Yes.

"A castle."

That was .... helpful.

"You can just cook for yourself. But have I forgotten your name?" she asked. "I meet so many people, I'm afraid. My name is Death."

"I'm United Kingdom, nice to meet you," England introduced himself (like that was a perfectly ordinary name), and veered up to take his sausages off the fire. "Come now. You must try some!"

Someone who went around calling herself Death was not one to throw stones.

"All right," she decided, adjusting things a bit so she'd seem to have lips and skin on her face. It was a bit disturbing to eat without that present. "You're happy. Have you seen Death before?"

Edited 2010-03-06 15:20 (UTC)

"Well, no, but I have a few friends like you."

Also, sometimes, he killed people, so, you know. Casting stones, bad. He dropped a few sausages onto a plate. "You wouldn't happen to know any unicorns...?"

"Not on this plane," she said, faintly puzzled. "Why, do you know them?"

"They're friends of mine."

And often got him weird looks, but he was willing to work past that.

The oven went ping, and England yanked out the scones. "It's ready!"

"Enjoy it," Death said graciously, and rose to stalk out of the room.

Nothing against England. Possibly something against his cooking.

And what followed in her wake was a lot of decidedly unpolite (and creative) cursing.

Domino smelled food cooking. It was a lot harder to pursue a bounty on an empty stomach so she decided to see if she could convince whoever was cooking to share.

Hmm, cute boy.

"Hello." she smirked at him. "Something smells good."

"Good morning," England preened, "Would you like some breakfast?"

He preened quite well. "I'd love some, thanks." She leaned against a table, watching. "I'm Domino." she said finally. "What do they call you?"

Edited 2010-03-06 17:58 (UTC)

"I'm the United Kingdom," he said, not without pride, dumping sausages and scones onto a plate.

You still had a minute or two to run away, Domino. "And I am very pleased to meet you." Or... none, as he set it down in front of her.

Anyone who made it through that food should be proud of themselves.

Domino did not run away. She did raise an eyebrow at the introduction though. Professional wrestler? Lightweight class? Or possibly a nutter.

"Of course you are." The food did not bother her. She worked in a business where a girl typically had to be extra tough just to be taken seriously. Plus when you lived her kind of lifestyle your stomach got really strong in terms of food.

She dug right in. "What do they call you for short?"

"England," he said, approvingly.

He was beaming, in fact. "Someone who appreciates my cooking!"

Domino smirked. "Do people not usually appreciate it?" Sure British food wasn't the best, but you took what you could get sometimes.

"Not that wine bastard, France," England said, his hands choking the bare air for a few seconds.

Domino managed not to laugh, but it was hard. "He's just jealous because everyone hates France." No, that was America. But England had a sexy accent, great comedy and TV, and James Bond. Just for starters.

"Thank you!"

England might have hated France more vehemently than most. "That flashy madman shouldn't be allowed out in public."

Goodness this kid had a mad-on. "But then who would we all make fun of?"

505, Francine wasn't going to think about. 407? No Arthur. No anybody. Common rooms? Empty or filled with other faces and voices that shouldn't exist either.

In the end she ran to the kitchen not because she expected to find him there - ha - but because it was the one place where she'd ever felt like she had any control over things, even if in this case the thing was a nightmare and she shouldn't expect anything like control.

So of course he was here. "Arthur!" Hopefully he wasn't holding a hot frying pan, because he wasn't about to get seriously - if not joyfully - glomped.

England froze up. Had someone just--

"Don't touch me!"

Flail. ... No, wait, manly gnyaaargh.

Well, that was familiar at least. As were the next words out of Francine's mouth, ironically. "It's me, Arthur!" Who was solid, if flaily, which was making this 'having a nightmare' concept a little more confusing. Or a little less likely.

...Did she just call him Arthur?

Arthur - or England, or UK - spun around, blinking at her. "Who are you, woman?!"

It was still a part of the whole flailing thing, so you'd be excused for mishearing any part of it.

Francine could match his flail with stillness to the point where they might actually cancel each other out. "Who am I? I woke up in bed with Katchoo, for God's sake. Priestly is downstairs in one of the common rooms. And oh yeah, we're on this damn freaking island again, and you're asking me who I am? Not funny, Arthur. Not fucking funny at all."

"I am not trying to be funny, you histrionic woman," he shot back, quickly patting some imaginary filth off his shoulders. "How do you know my name?! Did that bastard France put you up to this?"

"France?" She couldn't ever remember Arthur shortening her name to anything, let alone that. "Since when do you call me that?"

Aaaaand she fell from pissed back to breathless and scared without stopping for sausages and scones on the way, though she did smell them. "You're serious. You don't know who I am. ...And you're cooking."

"Well, yes," he sneered, "But if you think I'm going to offer you some now, you're off your rocker."

"You can't cook anything but raw meat over a fire and Easy Mac!" Once she'd put a pre-set on the microwave for it.

"I'm making scones, not that it should matter to you."

Now his feelings were hurt. He'd just have to be meaner to make up for it.

"I can't even make scones." There was a whole lumpy.... thing to it that she'd never quite managed to master. Very possibly because she'd never had anything like the proper ingredients for them in Fandom. Why was she talking about scones? She was standing in Fandom talking about scones with an Arthur who didn't recognize her, an Arthur without Reno's mark on his face, and she hadn't woken up yet.

And her arm hurt when she pinched it. "Ow."

Edited 2010-03-07 00:31 (UTC)

"Well, I can," England huffed, crossing his arms over his stove. "And what are you doing to yourself?"

"Trying to wake up!"

"You're obviously not sleepwalking if you're annoying me!"

"I am if it's my nightmare." The scary part was the part where she was starting to believe it wasn't.

"Well, it's not," said England, who by now wished for some kind of kitchen implement to wave with. "This is England's territory. You can't invade it."

"Who's invading? I just woke up here. And you're--" The lack of a word, or maybe the choice of too many -- including but not limited to crazy, obnoxious, not Arthur and actually a bigger prat -- culminated in a frustrated "....aaaghgh!"

"Oh my god," he said, scandalized, and took the opportunity to make a few steps off towards... away from her. "Please tell me you're not contagious!"

"I'm not the crazy person here!" Unless, you know. She was.

"You most certainly are, barging in here like some scarecrow's downtrodden aunt and yelling at me, you mad woman!" He had a spatula, now. Fear.

Yes, because brandishing kitchen implements at Francine was likely to get any reaction besides, "You're holding that wrong! And I'm not a scarecrow and ...and I don't want your stupid scones anyway, Arthur Pendragon!"

Or a hug that didn't end in someone flailing at her. Or the last twenty minutes of her life back, especially the waking up part. She definitely didn't want any of that.

She did kind of want some dignity as she turned on her heel to stomp out of the room, but she was shit out of luck on that score too.

Jack decided that maybe he could get away from whatever was going on by making it to the roof.

He didn't quite make it, as the smell of food...was a bit distracting.

But it was food. It'd be rude to just pass up food, right? Right.

Jack waved as he entered, hoping this wouldn't be hurting his brain.

"Come in, come in, sit down, have some breakfast!"

Sigh.

Free food? Okay. This couldn't be all that bad. Right?

"Sure! What's on the menu?"

"Scones and sausages!" He beamed, pulling open the oven on another batch of really, really terrible food.

Jack had ate worse. Once. Okay, maybe a handful of times. He managed to eat about half before he couldn't take any more.

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6th Floor Kitchen, Saturday Morning

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