Work Text:
“What are you doing?” Napoleon looked up from his project on the kitchen counter, raising an eyebrow at his Russian companion. “Pierogi.” The American answered, stepping aside to show the other the small dough circles on the cool marble, some already closed with stuffing and formed into a half-moon shape.
Illya stepped over to where he had been observing the American in his natural environment; the kitchen, his curious gaze turning into a lightly disapproving frown.
“Vareniki.” The tall male said, gesturing at the pastries innocently laying on the floured surface of the marble countertop. “No flour on counter either.” The Russian continued, heedless of Napoleon’s stare turning from confused bemusement to puzzled indignation.
“Excuse me. But that is clearly pierogi. And I am using flour so the dough does not stick to the marble.” Illya’s disapproving frown deepened, eyes narrowing slightly.
“One does not simply flour the counter with vareniki.” He countered, stressing the name of the dish. “Not if you do it right.” Napoleon opened his mouth to reply to that harsh hit to his prowess as a man skilled in his craft, but closed it just as quickly when he heard the front door open.
“One moment, Peril.” He said instead, trying to smooth out his expression into something more cheerful, trying to ignore how the Russian’s small smirk of victory sent warmth to his cheeks.
“Gaby! My beloved partner I just wanted to see!” He started, all cheer and smiles, hurt pride shoved under the proverbial rug for now. “How has my favourite mechanic been, hm?” He started, leaving Illya in the kitchen.
“One finger of flour on my new coat and you have to sleep on the couch.” She warned, making the American nearly pout.
“But Gaby…Peril criticized my cooking…” The young German woman raised her eyebrow while she gave the cook his desired ingredients so she could shrug out of her outdoor coat and hang it on the hook near the door, kicking her boots off as she did.
“And how is that my problem?” She asked him while he peeked into the bag and walked back towards the place of his beloved edible creations. She was following him into the kitchen, curious.
“I will have you know-” His retort fell short when he looked up from the bag, his eyes landing on Illya’s broad back, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, working on his dish. He managed to put the paper bag with groceries on the empty table that was placed near the window.
“What are you doing with my dish, Peril?” Napoleon demanded, stalking over.
“Fixing your pierogi in proper vareniki .” The Russian had the gall to nonchalantly answer, turning his head to look over at the peeved American. His expression was daring, but also damned playful and even cute .
Fuck.
“Then- then at least let me help.” Napoleon stated, making the Russian stare at him for a moment, thinking.
“Boys. Play nice, ja? We are on holiday. Waverly was gracious enough to give us two weeks off, including Christmas and new years.” Both her boys turned to look at the small German, one hopeful and the other trying to hide how fond he was of her.
“Da, Napoleon. We have to play nice. We have to share the kitchen now.” Said as if that was the worst thing for the American in the world; sharing his domain. Napoleon would like to make the Russian smug smirk disappear however. And he knew exactly how.
“Of course, liebling.” He gave Gaby an innocent look and a wink while she reached for the still-warm kettle on the stove while he grabbed a clean mug from the sink for her.
“You better. Or I will revoke both your access to the kitchen.” She threatened, taking the mug from his hands and disappearing back into the living room.
The American turned back towards his Russian after Gaby had left and gave him a smirk, leaning into his personal space. “I see the vareniki is coming along nicely.” He complimented, impressed with how nice they looked. More… authentic. “Maybe show me how you made them, hm?” He hedged, loving how Peril’s cheeks began to turn a rosy pink from how close he was to the other man. Practically close enough to kiss.
Illya was watching him, waiting for his next words perhaps, hands still on the counter, vareniki finally finished but forgotten. “Cowboy…” Napoleon saw him swallow, Adam's apple bobbing with the action. “Can…” Oh he was so cute, Napoleon thought, watching Illya’s blush deepen. “Can you… Поцелуй меня?”
Napoleon couldn’t help but smile at how bashfully it was asked, eagerly slotting his lips against Illya’s. It was sweet, like sugar and vanilla. He felt Illya deepen the kiss for a moment before pulling away for air. “We…should finish vareniki.” Napoleon couldn’t help but kiss him once more, just to shut him up.
“Agreed Peril. Let’s finish the pierogi.” He couldn’t help but tease, laughing when he saw Illya’s face turn from bashfully pleased to affronted indignation. He kept laughing even when Illya tried to grab the flour to use for revenge. He should make a run for it now, hopefully Gaby would not banish him to the couch forever.
Oh how he loved to poke the Russian dragon until it spit fire.
The vareniki ended up delicious in the end, even if that adventure ended up with Napoleon on the couch that night.
—
“Why is there log on table? With twigs and snow?” Napoleon glanced at the perplexed Russian who had just entered the kitchen to see what Napoleon was scheming in there. The table took up both the kitchen and the living room, with room for six people.
The kitchen was nestled in one corner of the dwelling the three spies occupied for the holidays, with the living room attached to the space, without any doors or walls in the way.
Napoleon was just tidying up the kitchen, wiping a clean rag over the top to make the marble sparkle in the light of the lamps dotted around the walls. It had become dark a few hours prior, the wintery time making the sun set very early in the afternoon. The sky had been overcast and broody too, thick snowflakes still clinging to Illya’s hair, making his long lashes almost sparkle with the melting water.
“Did you at least pull off your shoes at the door, Peril?” The American heard the Russian scoff.
“Am no babarian, unlike you. You put firewood on table.” The American sighed and turned to look at the other, draping the wet rag over the sink edge to let it dry. He raised an eyebrow at Illya’s appearance.
“You look like someone dumped an avalanche on you.” The Russian rolled his eyes, taking his hands through his hair to get rid of the last stubborn flakes. “Chop shop likes to throw snowballs. At branches that hold snow. I was gathering firewood. For hearth. But I see I missed one.”
Napoleon walked over to the Russian, stopping next to the man. “That, my dear, is a log yes. But it is also cake. That masterpiece on the table is for tomorrow’s Christmas’ dinner.” The other was watching him like he had grown a second head. “A yule log cake, Peril.” Napoleon explained, a soft frown appearing on his face when it stayed quiet.
“A yule log cake.” Was the deadpan response a few moments later. “You made a real log into cake.” Napoleon wanted to deny that. He very much wanted to say no. He let out a deep sigh and sent a quick prayer to the skies above.
“Whatever you think is right, Peril. Now. Go clean up and help me with the main dish, yeah? This turkey is not going to bake itself.”
That Christmas dinner was actually really nice. Even if Illya had kept insisting Christmas was not yet for another two weeks. “And this is not even American bird. This is not turkey. This is wood grouse. Where did you get it even?”
Napoleon loved how perplexed Illya sounded. It was kind of silly and cute and now the American had a reason to boast too. “Gaby and I went out in the woods to go look for one. She helped me make the bird ready to eat.” It was not a complete lie. She had helped him gather the bird.
At the nearest store in a small town that sold locally shot wild, that was.
“This is ridiculous. This is not the Russian way.” He groused, pouting. Napoleon wished he had thought to grab Illya’s camera for this. But alas, it was laying innocently on the nightstand. Illya had been taking photo’s yes, but not of any of the preparations of this feast. Nor while eating said feast.
But that was fine. That meant that they still had photo’s left to shoot for the new year. Illya had said that the new year was more of his thing. That in Russia, the new year was Christmas and the end of the year celebration combined. Ded Moroz would bring presents to well-mannered children and leave them under the fir Christmas tree on new year’s eve.
Gaby was obviously delighted in all the food and the stories and did not even intervene much in their disagreements or arguments, just made sure that they kept it civil or she would force them to make up like misbehaving children.
After the delightful meal of wood grouse, mashed potatoes with gravy, steamed vegetables and the delicious chocolate sponge cake Yule log as dessert, the boys were too content to ruin the mood.
But Illya did swear to Napoleon that when his Christmas came around, on the 7th of January, he would make it his way. The Russian way.
—
The new year was a success. They had not had fireworks, or could acquire them easily, so they skipped those this year. Double the amount then next time, Napoleon had joked, grinning as he dodged a snowball aimed at his head. “Help with shoveling. Or we snow in.” Their Russian had warned, snow in his gloved hands. “I will not hesitate to throw more at you, cowboy.” He had threatened, looking as serious as if this was a mission he had to personally bring to a success.
“Father Frost will not bring you anything if you don’t help. Nor will his granddaughter be nice to you.” The Russian added, shoveling a pile away from their path to the car. It would not do for their escape route becoming inaccessible due heavy snowfall. Not that they would need it probably, but it never hurt to be prepared.
“Remind me, Peril. Who are Father Frost and his granddaughter again?” Napoleon knew a little of them, since Illya had been dropping information like crumbs the last few days but that did not give him the full picture.
“You never listen.” Illya grumbled, moving another pile of snow away from the path they had deemed their least icy option to the car. “Ded Moroz is your…Santa. Or well… He is Father Frost. And together with his granddaughter Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden, he brings presents and lays them under the new year tree, the Yolka. He will ride around in a troika. A carriage pulled by three horses at once.”
Napoleon is nodding along to show he is listening, shovel in his hands forgotten. “My..” He sees Illya swallow and then steel himself, determined to tell him everything. “My mother used to make outfits for papa and I..so we would match in the Masquerades held on Red square.”
Napoleon had not expected that, but he could imagine little Illya with his father, celebrating the new year in fun matching outfits with food and drinks and fireworks. “I’m sure your mother liked to make her husband look silly because she loved him. And because she loved you too.” Gaby told Illya, laying her hand on his arm in support. Napoleon agreeing with her with a soft smile and a nod.
“Thank you.” Illya told them both, thankful that they had not made fun of this. Of the memory of his father in an outfit resembling a kind of deer with antlers full of lights, and Illya as his little fawn, with snowflakes sewn everywhere on his outfit.
At this point, everyone was getting cold so the three of them all went back inside, the shovels parked near the door. They all made sure to stoke the fire of the hearth high enough to nearly singe their hands while tending to it, the fire roaring merrily while it devoured it’s fuel; pine and spruce wood, evergreen needles, with the occasional pinecone in the mix.
—-
Napoleon was not prepared for what the Russian’s Christmas celebration had in store two weeks later, with how good the kitchen had smelled. For the last two days Illya had barred both spies from said kitchen while he was at work.
“Illya Nikolaevich Kuryakin.” Said Russian looked up from setting a plate on the decorated table. He blinked at the American, looking like he had done nothing wrong. If you did not look at what the dish contained that had been placed on the table.
“You made Kholodets.” Napoleon was horrified, watching the abomination jiggle merrily when Illya put more plates next to it. It was a gelatinous circle stuffed with meat, some vegetables and grated horseradish. It was amber coloured and see-through and looked absolutely revolting to even touch.
Illya nodded, as if Napoleon’s horrified voice was not even bothering him. “I have tangerines.” He pointed to the orange fruits scattered around the table. “And Oliver salads, those have fine chopped boiled eggs, sausage, marinated cucumbers, and mayonnaise sauce.” He pointed to the bowl with the salad in question.
“I also have herring under fur.” At the American’s blank look he explained. “Herring topped with boiled vegetables, like beetroot and apples.” At Napoleon’s nod of understanding, he pointed to the next dish. “Pickled cucumbers, salted vegetables and mushrooms.” The Russian pointed to the dishes as he told his partners about them.
“Last two dishes are vinaigrette. Beetroot salad.” He added for clarification. “Last I hunted myself yesterday.” He said, proud of his hunting prowess. “Duck with apples.” All the previously named dishes sounded wonderful. Delicious and probably very tasty and authentic Russian.
Illya’s smile turned devious and big and sharp as he gestured to his star of the night, the monster on the table. “And finally… Kholodets, made from boar bones and meat with boiled egg, parsley, horseradish, salt and pepper with a side of paste of grated horseradish.”
He gestured at the table at large when both his partners kept staring at him after his grand tour of the dinner options. It was a mix of curiosity at how the other dishes would taste and morbid fascination of the Kholodets in Gaby’s case. Napoleon just wished he could kiss his peril to shut him up and start the dinner, hopefully without having to ever touch the most cursed dish on the surface of the earth.
“Merry Christmas and have a wonderful Noviy God for both of you.” Illya’s smile was more genuine now, happy he could celebrate his holiday with the both of them. Napoleon smiled back, with Gaby grinning at the both of them. They ended up curled up in a pile on the couch, Illya squished between Napoleon and Gaby with the fire keeping them warm.