"Oh my God, Fletcher, are you all right?" There is great concern to Valkyrie's tone and expression as she rushes into the kitchen of her house, where Fletcher has humbly asked to be allowed to try and practice cooking, because for some obscure reason he seems to think that being able to cook will make him a more masculine, capable person. It would, if it weren't for the fact that, a, he squeaked a lot when he did it and b, he got far too far into it.
"Yes," he says shortly, eyes closed and face tilted towards the ceiling. "I don't think I can say the same of the roast, but I am mostly all right. I think."
"Fletcher, I think you might want to look in a mirror."
"I am mostly aware of the fact that my face is coated with a layer of cremated beef, yes, I know."
"No, Fletcher, your hair is on fire."
With a high pitched shriek, Fletcher runs to the sink and tries to run cold water all over his head to douse the flames. Due to the amount of chemicals in his coiffure, this was not the easiest thing in the world.
A/N: Cooking may, in fact, be a perfectly masculine thing, but not if you're doing it just so you can wear the frilly apron.
~Mademise Morte, December 3
