Yay, more unoriginality, haha. This is a manual fic based on LolliDictator's works. I picked this specific doll (haha, read it to know which one) because I wanted to try and empathize with my mother. Bless her poor soul for having put up with it... and still is putting up with it. /facepalm

Gah, I'm sorry, Mom. ;-;

"I said, get your butt down here now!"

"No!"

"Now!"

"No!

"I'm warning you, if you don't get down here this instant, you're not going to get any dinner, mister." Serena grumbled angrily, staring up past the wooden stairs, her eyes meeting nothing but the blank wall of a white canvas that was the edge of the stairs. Crossing her arms, she scowled, tapping her feet rhythmically with the ticking of the clock, a sound that was frankly grating on her nerves as much as the new tenant living in her newly furnished room now was.

There was a shallow silence that ensued, during which time the pregnant pause made her take in a deep breath before readying herself to shout her lungs out once more. "… As if I'd want any of your cooking, old woman!"

She spluttered. "Wh-what? Why, why I nev- I've never been more… more insulted in my entire life!" Her green eyes twitched in irritation, her arms unfolding as she opened and closed her fists, glaring at the space that was being unimaginably rude to her. Damn space, damn wall, why couldn't they do anything more productive? Like say, pull down a certain boy for dinner? "Fine, if you don't want to eat, then don't you, you fool! See if I care!"

With a huff, she turned around, gently massaging the bridge of her nose as she felt another headache coming on. Serena grit her teeth, before resuming her place in the kitchen, where she had been stirring some pork in the frying pan. It was something called adobo, which was a cuisine back home in the Philippines. Her parents had returned back to their home country just last year on a sort of "trip", and she knew as well as they did that they just wanted to get some alone time in as she busied herself for university. Luckily, they'd taught her a thing or two about recipes; if she hadn't, then she'd already been stuck eating Spam and corned beef and various other canned goods for the remainder of her sad, sad life. Her mother, a pure Filipina, had told her that she had a gift for cooking, to which, back then, she had been adamantly proud of. Now, whenever she mentioned this self-praise in front of him, he would just snort and proceed to completely ignore her for that night, muttering a stream of (un)intelligible insults regarding her supposed "big head".

The idea clamped on her mind and she grit her teeth in frustration, before she violently stabbed the pork cutlet with a large fork, causing it to hiss violently. The frying pan (lord God, everything just absolutely detested her around here, didn't it?) retaliated, sending blobs of highly heated grease towards her exposed arms and face. She jumped backwards, crying out in pain. There had been a significant amount of blob attack there, and she could see her skin reddening where it had struck.

She just about threw a hissy fit.

Damn it, damn it, damn it! As if she didn't have a bad enough day at work today, but now she had to deal with that little bastard? Oh, no, no, then she had to deal with cooking a meal that she actually cherished, only to have it be so rudely rejected by her new companion? If this was earth, she did not want to know what hell was like.

Muttering curses under her breath, Serena grabbed a towel near a rack, splashing cold water on it and applying it to the mark, which at this point was starting to itch a bit. Watching the water flow down the sink made her want to douse a certain someone's head in a stinking toilet, but she was sure that a.) that was some form of human rights violation, and b.) that was also some form of child abuse.

But that didn't stop the thoughts from running through her head, did it?

With more force than intended, Serena shut the tap off, sighing in spite of herself. This was just another day, one in many, and she knew that if this kept up, she would be sprouting gray hairs a month from today. She should have really learned to control her temper more, but that much she couldn't help. Blame her father, if one would, with his extremely silent nature that masked a sometimes volatile man when pushed to the extreme limits. She blamed her heredity and high cholesterol problems. Yeah, that was it.

She turned towards the stove, flicking the knob to "off", before grabbing a plate off a nearby shelf and setting the food on it. It was a little too late before she realized that she had forgotten to set a piece of tissue on the ceramic beforehand; the oily residue was the only thing about the food that she did not enjoy. Despite being one step to pulling all her hair out in frustration over the matters of pork and its damn fattiness, she was able to see through the task with much cursing and hating. (What she wouldn't give to stab the damn things with a fork again.)

Serena delivered the food back on the kitchen table, where it cooed delicately, cooling off. Serena looked up, wondering if he would ever come down – or not. Knowing him (oh yes, she did, after being stuck with him for a month, she could very well conclude that she knew his personality to some extent), he probably would just sneak down here for a midnight snack, where, upon her horrible grumpiness, she would find unrefrigerated milk on the table along with pieces of Cheetos scattered all around the floor. Oh, how she rued the day she had ever bought milk for this damn house when she was very much lactose-intolerant, but seeing as how the boy had taken a liking to it, she couldn't refuse. Even if, you know, she wanted to just crush that face of his into tiny pieces.

That being said, there was probably no use in waiting around for him. Reaching for a spoon and fork, she sliced herself some pieces. She couldn't help but feel a tinge of pride when only a minute amount of oil squelched through; she had cooked it perfectly well this time! For the first time in that day, she was able to smile as she popped the piece into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. But at the same time, she felt a small ache in her chest; would he never eat her cooking?

'Damn it, I'm getting too attached to the little whelp.'

She shook her head viciously, ramming the fork against another piece and shoving it into her mouth with more force than necessary. The force caused her to gag momentarily, and she coughed and retched, banging her fist on the table repeatedly as she ran over to the sink, downing a whole glass of water in one gulp. Taking in a deep breath, she inhaled and exhaled frequently and erratically, eyes positively bugging out from the near-death scare.

She grumbled to herself sarcastically; even when he wasn't there, he was killing her. Literally.

Once she had relatively calmed down, Serena leaned back on the cool porcelain sink, before realizing that she was far too tired for her own good. Shuffling over to the kitchen chair, she crossed her arms atop it and set her head on it, eyes flickering open and close dangerously until everything blurred. Then she fell into that deep state of the dream world, thinking about flying pigs and killer forks.

A short glance at the watch on her hand signalled to her that it was ten o' clock at night. She stirred groggily, having been awakened by the sounds of cutlery. Groaning, she rubbed at her eyes, which thankfully did not need a whole lot of adjusting, considering the room was semi-dark.

A figure stood in front of her, frozen in place, a fork stuck in his mouth. Even her half-conscious mind could easily make out who it was, although what he was doing there… was just beyond her.

"Nngh… Alfred? What're you doing here?"

The other jumped, before pulling the fork out of his mouth and clacking it down on the plate with a loud thud. Serena groaned internally; that was not the sound she was expecting.

"Nothing," he said shortly, definitively, before huffing and crossing his arms, avoiding eye contact.

"Mmm, s'that so? Then why are you talking with your mouth full… and…" she sniffed into the air curiously, lifting her head at the familiar aroma. "Why does it smell like my adobo?"

"Dunno."

"W-wait a minute." Serena rose up into a sitting position, eyes widening as the hazy effects in her brain settled down, her eyes starting to get a full view of the situation. "Y-you're eating my food?" Her eyes lit up in what would seem to her, to be happiness. "You're eating my food!"

The other stomped his foot stubbornly, shaking his head profusely. "I am not. I was hungry, it was dark, and I grabbed the first thing I could eat, ok? And work on your cooking; this tastes disgusting. It's too oily!" With that, he turned to leave, stomping up the stairs in all his wild abandon.

At the table, Serena smiled, feeling a pang of pleasure. However, this was short-lived as she heard the slam of the door upstairs that was enough to wake up the neighbours.

Slamming her head on the table repeatedly with a groan, she scratched at her head furiously, threatening to pull her own hair out.

Since when the hell did a nineteen-year-old become a mother to the most angsty sixteen-year-old ever?

... Does anyone notice that Alfred gets his tsundere-ness from his own father/brother (*coughEnglandcough*)? . Anyways, here's my first go! Please do review and... cookies!~ :D