A/N: My first attempt at something AU-ish… Eh…. FrUK that's NOT angsty? My god, the world is ending! Though… I suppose I don't put any of my FrUK stuff up here, do I? Hunh. Maybe I should do that. I love them so much, after all.

When Francis came home, the first thing that crossed his mind was how lucky he was the fire alarm had not gone off as he saw the great black cloud coming from the kitchen. The second was that he might have been better off if it did go off. The whole house was slowly filling with a thick black cloud of smoke, and it carried with it the distinct smell of that-which-was-once-food, which could only mean one thing.

Arthur was cooking.

Fearing for his taste buds and his stomach, Francis moved toward the kitchen, ducking under the evidence of the dreadful act being committed in an attempt to keep his hair from being to blackened. It also had the happy effect of keeping his eyes from watering and his throat clear, so he was able to stay silent when he slid up behind the Englishman, busy before the stove, and slide his arms around the other's waist.

"You are cooking, mon ami! Have I done something wrong?" the Frenchman asked, a teasing smile on his lips. It only widened as he ducked a spoon thrown at his head.

"Damn Frog!" the 'cook' spat, spinning around to glare at the teasing man. "That's not how you thank someone for making you a meal!"

"A meal? And here I thought you were inventing a new torture device to use in your London Tower."

"It's the Tower of London not London Tower, idiot, and my food is perfectly fine! Delicious, even! It's better than bloody frogs legs and snails and whatever other crap you French bastards eat!"

"At least my food isn't a fire hazard!" Francis shot back, having long ago learned not to be insulted by whatever the Brit threw at him in arguments like these.

As if to accent his words, a shrill beeping suddenly filled the house and the sprinkler installed above the two men's heads spluttered to life, drenching both of them in a matter of moments. Francis smirked for a moment, gloating at the fact that even the house seemed to agree with him about Arthur's cooking, but stopped when he noticed that the other was looking more upset than grumpy now. The Frenchman took his chances and slipped in closer, wrapping his arms around the other.

"Just trying to cook a nice meal, for once." the Brit muttered, stiff but leaning into Francis' hold. "Thought it might be nice. Don't have to be a bloody arse about it."

"Cherie, I think it might be better if we tried a restaurant, non?"

"Idiot. Where are we going to find a restaurant - a nice restaurant - with room for us on Christmas Eve?" Arthur snapped, irritable and wet and disappointed in his utter fail at making a meal.

"Ah, well… I may already have already made reservations for us?"

"Already - ?"

"Mmm… Oui. It was going to be a surprise. Joyeux Noel, mon amour."

Kissing in a smoking kitchen, being soaked by man-made rain might not have been the ideal romantic situation…

… but neither Francis nor Arthur seemed to mind.

A/N: Shut up. I can't write fluffy endings, I know. Deal with it, non?

Mon ami = my friend

Cherie = dear/is a term of endearment

Oui = yes

Joyeux Noel = Merry Christmas

Mon amour = my love

Happy Christmas, everyone!