A/N: In Which Larxene :Allegedly: Can't Cook should have been titled In Which The Author Cannot Come Up With A Decent Title And Improvises, Hoping For The Best. However, that title is likely to be much too long to be allowed, and thus you get that atrocious title.
Summary: Zexion's smart mouth gets him in trouble with Larxene.
Warnings: Possibly platonic NamiZeku; definitely platonic Zemyx -meaning no yaoi-; a furious Larxene. Oh! And one swear word.
If you want to leave a review, that'd be appreciated, but it's not mandatory (even if it were, who'd enforce it?)
Disclaimer: No, I am not threatening your client by pretending to own this. Nor am I pretending to own it. Nor do I own it. You recognize it, and it's probably not mine (unless it's my name or writing style). The only thing I own is the plot/idea/story. (Wow, it's been a while since I've written a disclaimer, yo. Yikes.)
Zexion knew he should have kept his mouth shut, and grimaced as Naminé gingerly applied medicine to his middle, almost regretting what he had said. He sucked in a sharp breath as the young blonde's lithe fingers brushed over the most painful part of the bruise.
"Naminé––" Her pale fingers recoiled swiftly at his breath of pain.
"Sorry," she whispered. The slate-haired man shook his head, his own fingers tightening on the white chair's arms.
"It's alright..." He arched his back as Naminé reached around him to tie the cloth strips of bandages; finished, she propped her face in her hands and leaned her elbows on the chair-arm.
"So... would you like to tell me now how you crushed your ribs and got your bruise?" Zexion sighed, and opened his mouth to speak, when the door swung open and Demyx, surprisingly sitar-less, entered the room. His green eyes widened as he saw the bandages wrapped around Zexion's stomach, and he walked over.
"Zexy, what happened?" Quickly, Zexion pulled down his black shirt and shrugged on his lab coat.
"It's Zexion, Dem-Dems," he muttered, using the sitarist's hated nickname. Naminé giggled softly, and patted the floor next to her.
"Demyx, Zexion was just about to tell me. You can listen, too." Zexion shot her a glare before sighing and leaning back, draping his right arm lazily and protectively over his middle.
Zexion stood in the kitchen, tossing an apple into the air and catching it a fair few times for fun, and leaning against the refrigerator. The icebox made a comfortable hum against him, quiet and constant; he mulled over his thoughts as he continued tossing the apple, thinking slightly clearer because of the hum, when a sudden figure stepped in front of him, heels clicking, and placed its hands on its hips, knocking his concentration away.
The hips were very feminine, were clothed in a long, black, leather coat, made of the same material as the gloves on the pair of hands, and inconveniently moved right into Zexion's line of vision.
"Would you mind moving?" asked a high voice impatiently. Zexion looked up at the speaker, and shrugged at the irate, blonde haired woman. Larxene.
"As you wish, Milady," he said; she hmphed at him as she opened the door, taking out frozen rice, frozen vegetables, soy sauce, and three eggs.
"Whatever." As she began cooking, Zexion returned to the fridge and leaned against it once more, tossing the apple up into the air and thinking, again. As she defrosted the rice, Larxene glared at his apple silently, as though wishing it death for some inexplicable reason. When the microwave beep-ed, she broke off eye contact (Thank goodness, Zexion thought, for he knew no counter-jinxes and had not kept eye contact with the fruit) and dumped the rice into a frying pan on the stove, pouring in vegetables in with it, as well as the soy sauce. All the while, Zexion continued to lean and think, one-handedly juggling the fruit every few moments.
As the food sizzled in the pan, Larxene gave him another glare.
"Would you please leave? I can't cook with you just standing there, throwing that apple all the time! It's distracting." Zexion shrugged once more.
"You can't cook even when I'm not here, so why are you worried?" There was a silence as Zexion realized exactly what he had said, and who he had said it to. Catching the apple, he held onto it tightly as he prepared to dodge Larxene's inevitable attack. Her glare turned murderous, and with sudden, quick jabs, she aimed at Zexion with her fists. He dodged one, two, three hits, when––
"Oof."
––Larxene caught him right at his ribcage, and another below. As he doubled over, gripping his middle and concentrating on not giving her the pleasure of hearing a groan, Zexion sensed her smirk coldly.
"Bastard. Now get out of the kitchen, or I'll hit you where it really hurts."
"And then I left," Zexion said with a shrug. "It was pointless to argue: she had a frying pan and a wooden spoon. Clearly, the odds were against me. At least she did not have a knife in her hands..." Demyx clapped as laughter shook his body, rendering him silent and breathless, unable to speak.
"Dude. That was brilliant." Zexion let out a soft chuckle as it hurt to laugh, and nodded in in agreement as Naminé giggled at both of their words.
"Perhaps. It wasn't that funny, though." There was a pause as Demyx fought to speak.
"No... but it was true." Zexion smiled.
"Don't let Larxene hear you say that."