"What are you doing?" Amy stops elbow-deep in a brown paper grocery bag, hazel eyes going wide as she stares at her husband across the kitchen.
Rory, for his part, continues unpacking. "I'm putting away the groceries, what does it look like I'm doing?"
"What'd you do with the sauce?"
"Put it in the cupboard," he says dryly, "You know, where it belongs."
"It belongs in the fridge."
He stills, hands full of packs of biscuits, and blinks at her. "No, sauce belongs in the cupboard."
"What? No, it'll go bad faster. You've got to keep it chilled and fresh." Amy marches over to rectify the situation.
Rory drops the biscuits onto the counter and moves to stop her. "It doesn't need to be chilled, especially if it's not even open yet."
"You don't know what you're talking about," she says breezily, trying to duck around him.
He plants a hand on her stomach and holds her back. "Ah, I think you're the one who doesn't know what they're talking about," he replies, clearly offended.
"Rory, come on," she says patronisingly.
"Amy," he says in the same tone, "I spend way more time in the kitchen than you, I think I know where the sauce goes."
"Obviously not, or you'd put it in the fridge," she snaps. "And you do not spend way more time in the kitchen than me! I've cooked every night this week!"
"We got take out two nights," Rory points out.
Amy will not be stopped, however, passionately insisting, "I've cooked three nights this week!"
"Oh, wow, three nights worth of cooking -"
"And how many nights have you cooked, mister?" She jabs him hard in the chest with her index finger.
He swats her hand away and shrugs. "None, but -"
"None! I rest my case."
"-But I've been working nights this week so it doesn't count!"
"It does so count! I cook three delicious meals for you and you just ignore them -"
"Would you really call them delicious?" Rory mutters, and immediately regrets it.
Amy's eyes narrow dangerously. "That pie was a masterpiece."
Figuring that he's already dead, Rory decides to just go for it. "It was a little dry…"
"It just needed some sauce!" she yells.
"You just need some sauce!" he yells back, reaching behind him to grab the sauce off the shelf.
A mad tug-o-war ensues, in which Amy just about climbs up him to try and reach the bottle he's holding over his head. He unscrews the lid and madly scratches at the silver freshness seal over the top.
"Give that to me!" his wife shouts in his ear
"Oh, you want the sauce?" he taunts, stumbling back and knocking his hip on the counter.
"Rory, I swear to god -" With one last violent sweep, Amy manages to knock the sauce bottle from Rory's hand.
Right as he got the seal undone.
Knocked free, the bottle turns upside down and before either of them have a chance to realise what's happened they're both covered in sauce.
"Oh my god!" Amy shrieks, finally letting go of Rory to try and wipe the sticky red sauce out of her eyes. It's splattered over her shoulders, her chest, the entire length of the arm she'd had outstretched.
Rory hasn't fared any better. He can feel sauce dripping from his head down the nape of his neck, beneath his collar. It's all over his shoulders and a bit has gotten in his ear.
The kitchen is as much of a mess as they are.
Amy stops shaking her arms as Rory cradles her face in his hands and leans in to kiss her. Gentle and soft and completely at odds with their mad struggle a few seconds earlier.
"What are you doing?" she asks when they part.
Rory smiles. "You taste like sauce. Saucy."
Amy beams back at him. "I'm always saucy."