Francis sighed as he stared at the wreckage littering his once-pristine kitchen. Flour speckled the floor, grease slicked the counters, and pot and pans were strewn all around. "I had not expected this," was all he could bring himself to say through the vague haze of disgust over his mind.

Arthur simply rolled his eyes in response, his arms crossed as he leaned against the frame of the door joining the kitchen and the dining room.

"Really, making pasta isn't difficult," the Frenchman continued, stepping into the kitchen, his mouth agape. "How on Earth did you manage to make such a mess?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea," was all the Brit had to say for himself, though the smirk on his lips spoke volumes.

One hand coming to rest against the clammy nape of his neck, Francis sighed. "Cher, I've been giving you cooking lessons for the past month... How can you not prepare something so simple after all that?"

"Again," Arthur said, still smirking, "I really have no idea." Giving a careless shrug, he stalked into the dining room, calling over his shoulder, "The finished product's in here, if you're still interested in taste-testing it."

"I suppose I am..." Bracing himself and preparing for the worst, Francis followed, taking a seat at the head of the table, just to the right of the surly Englishman. There was a silver platter set before him, though it was covered by a matching lid. Francis gulped nervously.

"Ready?"

That sexy, overly mischievous smirk was doing nothing to help the churning in Francis' gut; the sparks it set off within him were sure to give him heartburn later on.

"Oui, I'm ready."

With just the slightest flourish, Arthur pulled the silvery lid away from the platter. "Well? What have you to say now?"

Francis had nothing to say. He was caught completely off guard.

The plate was perfect: The pasta, the sauce, the presentation, everything, and he delved in immediately, ignoring how rude it made him feel to do so. It tasted as utterly delicious as it looked.

Arthur merely smirked.

Once the well-supplied plate was empty, Francis gave a pleased sigh, reaching for the glass of white wine just off to his right. "Magnificent," was all he said.

"Is that right?" The smirk was still there.

"Oh, it most certainly is."

Arthur stood, moving to stand behind Francis's chair, leaning in to press soft lips to the Frenchman's neck. "You know," the smaller blonde all but purred, "I made the dinner. That means it's up to you to clean up the mess."

"But cher-"

"Don't try to get out of it," was Arthur's snarky reply. "When you cook, I clean; It's only fair."

"I suppose so," Francis reluctantly allowed, giving a pleasant little shiver when the other's lips ghosted against his ear. "How did you even manage to make such a mess?"

That impish little grin was answer enough.

Chuckling a bit in spite of himself, Francis asked, "You did it on purpose, didn't you?"

There was a husky laugh at his ear before Arthur pulled away. "Don't take too long, love. I'll be waiting upstairs."

Oddly breathless, Francis watched Arthur stalk out of the room. Dinner had been wonderful, yes, but at the rate the night was going, dessert was sure to be even better.