Well, would you look at that?

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Title:  Home Cookin’
Rating: PG-13 for language?

Pairing: pre-slash Jared and Jensen
Warnings: domesticity shaped; boys being boys 

AN: I just decided to finish this out of the blue, so not beta’d; also I haven’t written anything below an “R” in ages, and I didn’t know that’s what was happening when I started this, but well…the fic does what the fic does

WC: 4,060

Disclaimer: Damn dirty lies.

 
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There wasn't a single part of this that wasn't Jared's fault. If the giant lug had just learned how to cook from his momma, Jensen wouldn't be standing here at the kitchen sink peeling potatoes for the third Saturday in a row. Unfortunately, although Jensen's kitchen prowess was far superior to Jared's, his entire repertoire consisted of three things: mashed potatoes, spaghetti and grilled meat. Better than Jared's recipe file of Ramen noodles and salad; but not by much.

 

Jensen heard the mudroom door bang open and the scrabble of Sadie and Harley tugging Jared into the house after their evening run. A few minutes later Jared came into the kitchen, threw open the freezer door and just stood there, eyes closed letting the cool fog drift across his face. The same thing every evening. Jared came back from his run with a bang and a vacuum released rush of air.

 

"You're lettin' all the cold out." Jensen said without looking up from the last of the potatoes.

 

"Yes, Mom." Jensen could hear the grin in his voice and a few seconds later the freezer door made a sucking sound as it closed. Quickly followed by another suck-thump and then a pop of a cap as Jared got a beer. It was Jared who insisted on the automatic vacuum sealed fridge/freezer—god only knows why. Jensen was the only one who made any real use of it. But not anymore. He rinsed the final potato, plopped it in the pot with the others and turned to Jared.

 

 
 

 

"You're going to learn how to cook."

 

Jared was gulping beer and only managed a wide-eyed, "Bzzhuah?" in response to Jensen's proclamation. After swallowing, he asked suspiciously, "What are you talking about?"

 

"I'm talking about me being the one stuck in here whenever we decide to stay home!" Jensen yanked open a cabinet to expose the shelves that were near empty save a few cans of chili, a couple of bags of chips and a case of Ramen.

 

“A person can only subsist on take-out and the same goddamned boxed and canned food for so long! Plus, I'm fucking sick of the shit I cook. Besides we need to eat better," Jensen struck a blue-steel, "we're actors."

 

Jared's expression went from wide-eyed suprise to slowly dawning comprehension to narrowly suspicious.

 

Jared nodded toward the stove as he said, "Why do I have to be the only one to learn? You can only cook like...four things."

 

Turning and placing the lid on the simmering pot of potatoes, Jensen said, "You won't be." He walked over to the fridge and got himself a beer. "I hired us a personal chef."

 

Jared beamed, "Hey! That's awesome! I bet there's all kinds of stuff they can make for us!" He was bouncing on the balls of his toes as he talked, suspicion replaced by enthusiasm.

 

"Slow down there Sasquatch. I hired a personal chef who comes to people's houses to teach them to cook. He's not going to be cooking  for us."

 

Jensen was amused at the slow slide Jared's grin took as he realized it wasn't a free pass.

 

"Damn Jensen. When the hell are we going to have time to do this? We work crazy-ass hours."

 

"I already talked to him about that, he said all we'd need to do is call him an hour ahead of when we wanted him here and he'd come. Any day, any time."

 

Jared raised his eyebrows, "Shit, how much are you paying him??"

 

“Twice his hourly rate for him to be at our beck and call." Jensen felt the grin twitching at the corners of his mouth as Jared loped sulkily around the island and into the great room.

 

After he flopped down on the couch, Jared looked over at Jensen sullenly, "What if I don't want to?"

 

The grin came out full force as Jensen turned to get a fork to test the potatoes and said, "Then I move out."

 

He started to chuckle as he heard the answering, "Fucker."

 

*******

 

It was all Jensen's fault. He wouldn't be standing here now, covered in flour up to his elbows if Jensen hadn't decided to take a shine to cinematography. Because of that, Jared had given him a 16 mill for his birthday; which Jensen was now gleefully pointing at Jared and their teacher, Chef Randolf.

 

“Why am I the one covered in flour here? This was all your idea.” Jared grumpily directed at Jensen.

 

“Just recording for posterity, man. You know, so you have proof when you tell the future Mrs.P that you can indeed cook.” Jensen grinned cheekily, never moving the camera from his eye.

 

“Plus, this way, we'll have visual reference material in case we need to bone up. You feel me, right Chef?”

 

“Whatever helps you stop fucking up my recipes, I'm all for it.” Chef Randolf rumbled back at him.

 

Jared couldn't help but snicker.

 

The first time they called to schedule a lesson, it was a Friday afternoon and they'd had an early wrap. Chef Randolf wasn't at all what Jared had expected. On his initial visit, as soon as Clif had opened the door this stocky little man barreled through dragging a cooler stacked high with bags of stuff secured with bungee cords. Jared had looked at Jensen and Jensen had looked at him and then Jen had crooked his eyebrow and brought up his chin as if to say, “Well all right then, this might just be okay.”

 

Chef was about 5'7'--so short, in Jared's world. He had tattoo sleeves on both arms, wicked sharp sideburns that pointed the way to his mouth and long, curly brown hair pulled back by a bandanna that covered most of his scalp and a leather string to keep the rest behind him. He stomped through the foyer in his Doc Martens and headed unerringly to the kitchen where they heard him shout, “Well at least you've got decent appliances,” followed by slamming of cupboard doors.

 

A few minutes later, he came bustling back out, “Let's haul ass boys. Gotta get to Granville and The Market before it closes. You ain't got shit worth anything in there to cook with.”

 

Grinning, Jensen grabbed his sunglasses and Jared's wallet from the entry table and backed his way out the door, forcing Jared to face that smug smile all the way to the car.

 

They'd come back nearly two hours later with over $1,500 worth of stuff that took up the entire bed of Jared's truck. He'd had a minor panic attack at every stoplight, thinking that someone was going to reach into the bed of the truck, grab a bag and make like hell. Who knew that one little pot could not only be fucking heavy enough to brain someone, but cost more than he used to make during an entire summer of mowing lawns when he was a kid? He tried not to think about the stuff that said “Kitchenaid” on them. The only thing those things were gonna do was aid him to the poorhouse. To make things worse, Jensen had gleefully reminded him that 1) he'd paid for the lessons, so it was only fair that Jared fork out the dosh for equipment, and 2) it was Jared's house, therefore his job to stock it.

 

They were on the fourth lesson now and Jared had to admit, all that stuff actually was kinda useful. If you wanted to cook anyway. Which he didn't really, but Jensen was forcing him. Which is why he hated him.

 

The first lesson had been kitchen basics: measurements, knife skills, how all the new pieces of equipment worked, the difference between sauté and fry—shit like that. Chef had taught it all to them while they made batches of soup. Butternut squash soup, green chili, beef stew and matzo ball (to compound the wacky, Chef was Jewish). The freezer was now stocked with containers of them all for easy reheating.

 

The second lesson was vegetables. Half of this one they spent at the supermarket, Chef throwing various ones at them from across the bins, telling them to name it, tell him if it was fresh, making them smell them, squeeze them, thump them, all kinds of crazy shit. Then they took a bunch home and stuffed them, baked them, roasted them, grilled them...pretty much did every goddamn thing to them a person could do to a vegetable without getting arrested or winding up in the ER. Again, more stuff for the freezer.

 

The third lesson had been Jared's favorite—if you were going to make him choose, and he'd do so only under conditions of extreme duress—it was the meat lesson. And it was Jared's favorite because Jensen got freaked out when Chef took them behind the counter of his cousin's butcher shop, making them touch the various cuts, smell them and even grind some hamburger. Jared thought Jen was gonna have a good old fashioned fit-of-the-vapors from watching the meat extruding from the grinder. Then there was the extra added bonus of Jensen nearly yakking from pulling the insides out of the chicken and cutting the head off the fish they'd bought in addition to the beef. Yeah. That was a good lesson. Plus? Meat. The freezer was groaning—but then so were Jared and Jensen after eating at home these days.

 

This lesson. This one was definitely his least favorite. Too many fucking steps in the recipes. Measure, sift, weigh, stir, knead, fold, rise, punch, knead. Damn. It took less time to just go to the store and buy the entire shelf of bread. Jensen had already finished making biscuits that were in the oven as well as the dough for the foccocia from the recipes that Chef had taken from the Big Black Binder of Doom. Jared had started with a loaf of wheat bread that was now rising on the dryer in the laundry room (they'd run out of counter space in the kitchen) and now was working on scones.

 

“You and your huge fucking mitts, man.” Chef was shaking his head at Jared. “Get your fingers out of there and use the forks; you're melting the butter.”

 

Jared sighed, shook off his hands and picked up the forks, all while Jensen smirked and moved in for a close-up. When Chef said “Done,” Jared followed the steps in the recipe and tried to gather the dough together into a ball while touching it as little as possible—he was beginning to curse his giant hands himself at this point—wrapped it in plastic, put it in the freezer and set the last of the four kitchen timers for 45 minutes.

 

Jensen finally put down the camera, got three beers from the fridge and they all sat down to play Guitar Hero until the first timer went off.

 

Three hours later they had two batches of scone dough along with all the bread they made, sliced and wrapped in cling film in the freezer--Jensen looked at Chef suspiciously while he cut it all grumbling about extra steps until Chef smacked him in the back of the head and asked if he wanted all the work he'd done today to turn green and inedible by Tuesday. The biscuits were the only things that stayed out and they were already suffering the effects of two semi-southern boys being in close proximity. To top it off, Chef had whipped up some sausage gravy and left it in the fridge with strict instructions not to touch it until breakfast.

 

“Try to control yourselves. Don't eat it all at once, you fucking greedy bastards. There's enough in there for two meals—for two of you.” With that Chef had given them his traditional one fingered salute and stomped out of the house.

 

Knowing he would be looking for some sort of acknowledgement, Jared and Jensen raised their fists in the air as a response to his exit from where they were sprawled on the sectional dozing in between poker rounds on ESPN.

 

“I don't want to do this shit anymore,” Jared bemoaned from his corner, “It's fucking exhausting.”

 

Jensen snorted, “Yeah, remember you said that when you're chowing down on the stuffed peppers and chipotle beef later you giant wuss.”

 

Jared raised a leg and kicked his foot out at Jensen, solidly connecting with the other man's thigh, “Shut-up, this is all your fault.”

 

“Oh, hell no. It's yours,” Jensen's twisted one of Jared's toes as he continued, “ You're the one who couldn't cook.”

 

“I fucking hate you man.”

 

“Right back at ya big fella.”

 

*********

 

They were on the second to last lesson, it had been a nearly three month long process getting here. This was the last actual cooking they were going to be doing with Chef, the next visit was about making a menu and then how to actually shop for it—Jensen was dreading it. It was generally fucking agonizing being trapped in a store with Jared and his short attention span.

 

This go 'round was an Iron Chef style challenge (Jared may have stopped on it once or twice when flipping channels, and Jensen may have just happened to watch peripherally while reading his book). Chef had given them each a bag of all the same fixin's and they had to cook a meal for each other, then each would judge how well the other had done. No recipes, just the raw materials, pantry staples, and the skills they'd learned from Chef. Jensen may have felt a bit panicked. It was way too much like a final exam for his taste.

 

He sorted through his bag: some sort of tenderloin--he smelled it, lamb (shit), sweet potatoes and turnips (no problem, do some roasting), figs (what the fuck?), walnuts (Crap.  Jared better not put any of those anywhere near his dinner), baby spinach, gorgonzola cheese, and a brick of dark chocolate.  Sweet fancy Moses.  He was in trouble.  Mostly because he had no idea what Jared was going to do with these things.  They agreed to stay out of the dining room while the other ate, so as not to feel any extra stress.  Then, they flipped a coin and Jensen went first while Jared went to the garage to work-out.

 

He finally decided to make a quick braise for the lamb with chicken stock, the trinity of onions, celery and garlic and flavored with some red wine and rosemary.  He roasted the veges, made a salad from the spinach, figs, walnuts and cheese--with a balsamic vinaigrette thank you very much--and some pots de crème with the chocolate.  Chef nodded approvingly at each step and choice, leaning against the counter with his arms folded and Doc Martens crossed.

 

When Jared was finally allowed to come back downstairs Jensen was carrying the salad to the table.  He gave a sharp grin and said, "You better do me up right Jolly Green, because I made some fandamntastic food for your ass."  He set the salad on the table and then went back to the kitchen as Chef passed him to go and join Jared. 

 

Jensen returned about seven minutes later to find Jared running his finger through the remains of vinaigrette on his plate and then sucking it from his finger.  Jensen snorted as he presented Jensen and Chef with plates brimming with braised lamb and roasted vegetables.  Jensen couldn't help the grin from splitting his face as he turned back to the kitchen after hearing Jared inhale sharply and mutter, "Jesus fuck, that smells awesome."

 

Jensen busied himself in the kitchen checking on the pot de crème in the fridge, making sure they'd set up properly and then whipping up some lightly sugared cream to put on top of each one.

 

Jared looked at him with something akin to adoration when Jensen returned to the dining table, and Jensen felt something...warm inside him as he smiled.  He'd fucking hit it out of the park if that blissed-out look was anything to go by.  He took a look at Chef who quirked an eyebrow at him before letting something reminiscent of a smile touch his lips.

 

"Dessert is served.  And I'm done."  Jensen exited to the kitchen to clean up before Jared's turn.  When he finished cleaning up--consisting of wiping the counter and throwing pots and pans in the dishwasher, Jared could clean the stuff he needed himself fuck you very much—he poured a glass of wine and headed back to the great room.

 

Jared had pushed back from the table, huge hands rubbing his stomach contentedly, long legs sprawling underneath while his head lolled back. Smacking him lightly on his skull, Jensen said, “Get movin’ bitch, I’m hungry.”

 

“Can’t.  You’ve come precariously close to inducing a food coma, if I move, I may never recover.”

 

Jensen snickered and took a swallow of wine as Chef said, “Come on you lazy bastard.  It’s time for you to cook.  You don’t want to lose to the pretty-boy now do you?”

 

“Hey!” Jensen protested.

 

Chef winked in reply.

 

“Fuck,” Jared groaned.  “I give.  Let Jensen win.  I can’t make anything that good.  I don’t wanna even try.  Wanna nap.”

One of the things Jensen had really come to admire about Chef was that he never, not once, had ever given in to Jared’s charm, petulance, or avoidance tactics.  That wasn’t something that anyone had ever been able to do with any amount of success for as long as Jensen had known Jared.  And Chef wasn’t going to mar a perfect record now.  Grabbing the shell of Jared’s left ear in his hand, Chef pulled Jared to the kitchen caterwauling and stumbling the whole way.

 

Chuckling, Jensen turned on the tube and started flicking channels.

 

*********

 

Jared had been looking at the ingredients for over seven minutes now.  He knew because once he’d reached five minutes of picking up the ingredients, turning them over in his hands and replacing them mutely on the counter, Chef had started counting out his time.  Great, just what he needed, more pressure.

 

It wasn’t bad enough that Jensen had managed to wheedle this assortment of foodstuffs into a dinner that was better than many Jared had paid for in what claimed to be four-star restaurants; no, now he had to try to top it.  He looked at the figs again and his brain just…stopped.  He looked at Chef pleading, “I can’t do it man. That ,” he waved in the direction of the dining room, “was awesome.  I got nothin’.  Seriously.” 

 

One thing that Jared kinda hated about Chef was that he wasn’t afraid to get handsy, and suddenly the back of his head was smarting from the solid smack Chef gave it.  “Bullshit.  You’re a smart motherfucker, you can and you will make dinner,”  he gestured at the food, “with this.  And it will be good.  Because I taught you how.  Now get to it dickwad.”   Then he moved around the island and sat on a stool, clearly intent on watching Jared’s every move.

 

Well, fuck.

 

So he just started moving, opened drawers, got out the knives, pots, pans, bowls and then it started to come together for him.  The dots were connecting and he started smiling.

 

Twenty minutes later, when he brought Jensen an appetizer of bruschetta topped with  fig and gorgonzola spread, along with a small salad of mixed greens dressed with simple oil and vinegar and a bit of sea salt and crushed red pepper, he was feeling pretty proud of himself.

 

“Salad huh?”  Jensen raised a brow.  “Copy cat.  Hope your entrée is more original.”

 

Jared simply gave him the finger, smiled and headed back to the kitchen where Chef was on his way to the table with his own plate of food.

 

First, he stirred the pot where the turnips and potatoes were boiling, before turning back to make his skewers. Jared had diced the lamb into large chunks then marinated it briefly (well, as long as it took to make the bruschetta and salad anyway) in lemon, minced garlic and rosemary.  He started stacking this on water-soaked skewers alternating with some onion and mushrooms before placing them on the grill top and flipping on the fan.  Then he started on the spinach…

 

By the time he laid the plates of lamb skewers (atop a bed of sautéed spinach with pine-nuts and garlic, which was itself on a silky puree of turnips and sweet potatoes) on the table, he was feeling pretty damn confident.  Even more so when Jensen said, “Christ on a crutch, Jared. That looks and smells…wow.”

 

Propped up by his friend’s compliment Jared felt heady with accomplishment as he brewed a cup of espresso for Jensen’s dessert.  He made sure he got the foam just right before grating some of the dark chocolate on top and placing the piece of biscotti that he’d covered with some melted chocolate on the plate next to it.  A bit of a cop-out in light of Jensen’s pot de crème, but…well, at least he didn’t use the walnuts.

 

Which of course, Chef Randolf pointed out as Jared set the desserts down.

 

Shrugging Jared said, “Jensen doesn’t eat walnuts.  He hates them.  So, I didn’t use them.”

 

Chef looked at Jensen, and Jensen nodded, confirming Jared’s statement.

 

“Fine. Sit.”

 

Jared sat.

 

“Alright boys, I know that I told you that there’d be another lesson after this.  Some happy horseshit about menu planning and shopping,”  two pairs of knitted brows were aimed in his direction.  Chef Randolf waved his hand at the table and said, “What I just ate tonight shows me that even two ugly Americans,”  he winked, “can listen and learn.  You’re on your own from now on.”  He got up from the table and went over to his crate and grabbed something before returning to the table. With a resounding thud the Black Binder of Doom landed in front of them. “This is yours. Use it well young Padawans.”

 

Jared and Jensen grinned up at him, then at each other.

 

“Thanks man!”  Jensen said.

 

Jared though, was still focused on the supposed purpose of the evening, “Yeah, but who won, man?  Whose dinner was best?”

 

Chef threw his head back and laughed, “Fuck, there’s no prize Sasquatch.  You got some good food in your belly and the knowledge that you now know how to feed yourself better than some poor university student is your reward.”

 

Jared looked put out by this, he wasn’t much for intrinsic value in competitions, he liked clear cut answers and had made good friends with immediate gratification.

 

“What he’s trying to say Jare, is that I whipped your ass.”

 

Not even looking at him, Jared gave him the finger.  “Seriously Chef, who?”

 

Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, Chef moved back toward his crate, collecting his stuff for departure.  “Don’t call me boys.  I’ll call you.”  And with that he gave them one last look—later Jensen would swear there was fondness there—and Jared and Jensen gave him a final salute before listening to him bang out the front door.

 

“Dude, you totally know I won.”  Jensen dipped his biscotti and crunched.

 

“Fuck you, man.  That fig spread was inspired.”  Jared reached for Jensen’s espresso and took a swig before setting it back.

 

Jensen stood up, “Puh-leeze,” he stretched, “my dinner kicked your dinner’s ass.”

 

Narrowing his eyes Jared said, “I noticed that you didn’t exactly leave any crumbs on any of your plates dude.”

 

“Just being polite.” 

 

“Bullshit.  My cooking was great and you know it.”

 

Jensen decided he’d strung Jared along long enough.  “Yeah Jare, I liked it.  It was really good.”

 

The grin that exploded on Jared’s face was very nearly blinding, “I knew it!”  He pounded the table with glee.  “You love my cooking!”

 

Yawning,  Jensen scratched just under his waistband, “Yeah, man.  I like your cooking.”

 

Crowing, Jared sang, “You looooove it.  You want to eaaaat it.  You want to marry it.”

 

Stomach full, and body tired, Jensen smiled at the delight in Jared’s voice all the way to his room.

 

That was when it began to occur to Jensen that Jared's cooking might not be the only thing that Jensen was more than a little fond of.