Chapter Text
What the hell do immortal demigod princes eat for breakfast?
That was the $64,000 question after the two of us got dressed and headed into the kitchen. I mean, Loki was bloody royalty. I had no idea what Asgard would have served him, and there was absolutely no way a regular human woman like me could compare, but I got the sense that it wasn't so much about the food as it was about me teaching him to prepare it. I knew bits and pieces of Loki's past, and even during his warlord period, it was unlikely he'd cooked himself anything. He was probably just curious.
I decided to go with the least processed items I could think of for a demigod: homemade biscuits, bacon, fresh fruit salad, and poached eggs. With any luck, he wouldn't completely hate it all. If he did, well, my ego was in for a bruising. I was used to it by now.
I made us both coffee first to tide our stomachs over and then gathered all the ingredients. Loki stood by the island counter and flicked his cool gaze over the things I'd set out already: flour, sugar, butter, baking powder, and milk. "What is the first dish we are preparing?"
"Biscuits," I said. "I assume you had pastry on Asgard."
"Yes," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Our cultures intersect more than you think they do, sweetling."
"Mm." I started measuring the dry items for him. "Do you really hate the food on Earth?"
"Not all of it," he admitted. "I am fond of this coffee creation of yours, for example. The alcohol is far too weak, but some of your wine here is not the worst thing I have ever tasted. Some of the spirits as well are favorable.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine what it would take to get you drunk on our alcohol.”
Loki lifted an eyebrow. “I would drown before I became inebriated.”
I chuckled. “Probably. Alright, roll up those sleeves, your highness. Let’s get to work. First, you’re going to sift these ingredients together: that’s flour, baking powder, and salt.”
“Sift?” he echoed.
“Mm-hmm. Run them through this little sifter here so they’re evenly mixed together.”
I held sifter out over the ceramic bowl I’d neatly placed on the counter in front of him. Loki dumped the dry ingredients into it and I made a gentle tapping motion against my hand, dusting them into a mound in the bowl. I cut squares of shortening with a knife and plunked them in, handing him a fork. “Work that into it, please.”
He frowned slightly, but obeyed, squishing the shortening until the whole thing resembled crumbs. I retrieved the milk and told him to keep stirring as I poured it in. Eventually, dough formed. I helped him scoop it out and onto wax paper with plenty of flour already down. “Now we get it evenly coated so it’s not so sticky. Just roll it around in the flour until it’s on the whole thing.”
“This feels rather strange,” he griped, but he obeyed. I lifted the rolling pin. “Now we flatten it. You want about a half inch thick. Try not to break anything when you press down.”
“I can measure my own strength,” he sniffed, accepting the pin. He pushed down and the dough almost split in half. I bit my lip and tried not to giggle. He scowled, reformed the dough, and tried again. And again. He managed on the third try not to shove it so far into the dough that it was too thin. He hesitated a bit upon starting to roll across the dough, but he got the hang of it once I guided him. It glided over and over until they were the right size and I handed him the biscuit-shaped cookie cutter. “Make as many as you can from this mold.”
He pressed out about eight and I added them into the baking pan one by one. I formed the remaining dough into another small loaf and Loki flattened it again and made the last three biscuits. Then I slipped the pan into the oven and dusted off my hands. “There. Now you’ve made biscuits.”
“At last, my life has reached its high point,” he said with a roll of his eyes.
“Ha-ha,” I snarked as I brought out a cast iron skillet. “Cooking is a practical skill and requires talent to do so correctly, your majesty.”
“Mm, perhaps you’re right,” he mused, nuzzling the nape of my neck and encircling me in his flour-y arms. “You are good with your hands.”
“As are you,” I teased, then hip-checked him to one side as I fired up the stove. “Now go cut the fruit, since we both know you’re an artist with a blade.”
“Why, thank you, sweetling.” I heard the neat click of the blade on the wooden board as he chopped away. To my surprise, the cadence was quick and he never swore as if he’d cut himself. I’d predicted right that he’d done this part before even if it hadn’t been for a fruit salad. “What are these fruits, pray tell?”
“Green apples, red and green grapes, mandarin oranges, and pineapples.”
I heard a few crunches as he sampled the fruits. “Mm. This yellow one is new.”
“That’s the pineapple.”
“I like it. Flavorful.”
I bit my lip. Loki was never cute, but that came rather close, actually. He’d probably be cross if I told him as much.
The skillet now hot, I laid the bacon inside it carefully. Loki reappeared to peek over my shoulder with interest as it sizzled. I filled a pot with water and set it beside the bacon, firing it up into a boil.
“Can you crack an egg without getting the shell pieces everywhere?” I asked as I flipped the bacon over.
Loki eyed me. “Did you just ask if I am a nitwit?”
I sighed. “It was an honest question, not an insult. You’re extremely strong.”
“I do not shatter your very delicate bones whilst we are in the throes of passion. Yes, mortal woman, I can crack an egg.”
“Good.” I whisked the bubbling water until it swirled smoothly and offered him a bowl. “An egg, if you please.”
“As delicately as I can,” he sneered, just barely tapping it so that the egg white and yolk plopped into it. “And what is it you are doing there anyway?”
I lifted the whisk out and nudged him forward. “This is called a poached egg. Drop it in as close to the water’s surface as you can.”
“Odd.” He deposited the egg into the hot water and it danced about in the pot. I covered it with a lid for a few minutes. Once ready, I popped it out with a slotted spoon and set it on the plate nearby. I repeated the process until we had six eggs total: four for him, two for me. The oven beeped and I removed the biscuits, asking Loki to brush the melted butter on top of them. I added bacon to both plates and piled the fruit salad into bowls, then brought them over to the table.
“Voila,” I said with a smile. “You, Loki of Asgard, have prepared your first Midgardian meal.”
“A joyous occasion, no doubt.” He stooped to kiss me lightly. “Let us see how it compares.”
That made me wince a bit. I was sure he had opulent meals on Asgard and this wouldn’t be anywhere close, but I hoped for the best as I sat across from him. I pretended not to watch intensely as he tried each item. Naturally, he left his expression unreadable simply to antagonize me further. That being said, he cleaned both his plate and his bowl and even went for a second cup of coffee.
“Well?” I said. “Out with it. What did you think?”
“I think I understand why you enjoy cooking,” he said. “There is a small sense of accomplishment in creating something pleasant to eat and serving it to another person.”
“Thanks. But I meant about the food.”
“I have had better.” His eyes sparkled then. “And I have had much worse. Thank you for my first Midgardian cooking lesson, pet.”
I tried not to smile like a dope. It was extremely difficult. “You’re welcome.”
I didn’t expect his help, but Loki did bring the dishes to the sink, which was a nice surprise. I washed and dried them, then turned to him. “What next? I think you said you wanted to go hiking.”
He wrapped his arms around me, linking his fingers over the small of my back. “Why, yes, I believe I have just the thing for us.”
“You sound like you’re about to lead me into a trap.”
Loki leaned in towards my ear, his tone honeyed. “Do you trust me, pet?”
I thought it over, very aware of his warm breath on my neck and his powerful arms around my fragile body. I pressed into him a little more and smiled to myself. “Yeah, I guess I do. So much for self-preservation.”
He chuckled and kissed my ear. “Indeed, my little mate.”