Chapter Text
It was the kind of lazy afternoon where the only sounds in the base were the dull hum of the air conditioning and the occasional clink of a glass from the TNT Twins’ area. The team was scattered around, doing their own thing—Crimson Countess was lounging on the couch flipping through a magazine, Mindstorm was off somewhere trying to nurse another headache, and Black Noir was quietly watching a movie in the corner, his mask slightly askew as he snacked on popcorn.
All was calm. Too calm.
“Hey, Ben,” Crimson Countess called out casually, not looking up from her magazine. “You remember what today is, right?”
Soldier Boy, who had been cleaning his guns with the meticulous care he usually reserved for battle, froze. His eyes narrowed as he tried to piece together her cryptic question.
“Of course I do,” he said after a beat, his voice full of false bravado. “How could I forget?”
“Oh good,” Countess replied, still not looking up, though the smile tugging at her lips suggested she knew exactly what was happening. “I’m excited to see what you’ve planned.”
Soldier Boy’s mind raced as he tried to recall what he was supposed to be remembering. A mission? An event? His hand hovered over his gun, itching to grab it as if it could somehow help him out of this situation. Then it hit him like a truck—their anniversary.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, quickly replacing the scowl with a grin as he looked over at her. “You just sit tight, babe. I’ve got something special planned.”
“Can’t wait,” she said, finally glancing up with a smirk, watching him as he bolted out of the room, muttering to himself about how he’d figure this out.
Soldier Boy didn’t waste a second before tracking down Gunpowder, who was in his room fiddling with his custom pistol, lost in his own world.
“Gunpowder!” Soldier Boy barked, causing the teen to jump and nearly drop his gun.
“Yes, sir!” Gunpowder snapped to attention, eyes wide with alarm.
“We’re cooking dinner tonight,” Soldier Boy announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. “It’s mine and Countess’s anniversary, and we’re gonna surprise her with a fancy meal.”
Gunpowder’s panic deepened. “Uh, Soldier boy, I’m not really good at—”
“Bullshit,” Soldier Boy cut him off. “You’re gonna help me, and we’re gonna knock this out of the park. How hard can it be?”
They made their way to the kitchen, where Soldier Boy immediately started yanking ingredients out of the fridge without any real plan—steaks, potatoes, some vegetables, and a suspicious-looking jar of sauce that might have been expired.
“First things first,” Soldier Boy declared, slamming the steaks onto the counter. “We need to make this look like we know what we’re doing. Get an apron on or something.”
Gunpowder hesitated but quickly tied on a floral apron that had been left behind by some unfortunate staff member. Soldier Boy, of course, refused to wear one, insisting that aprons were for “sissies.”
With that, the chaos began. Soldier Boy threw the steaks into a pan with no seasoning, cranked the heat up to maximum, and then turned his attention to the potatoes, which he proceeded to mash with his bare hands before tossing them into another pot with an obscene amount of butter.
“Uh, sir, should we maybe… add some salt or something?” Gunpowder suggested tentatively, watching as the steaks began to smoke, sticking to the pan.
“Salt’s for pussies,” Soldier Boy growled, his focus on the potatoes now. “Real men taste the meat, not the seasoning.”
The sound of sizzling and the smell of burning meat quickly filled the kitchen. The steaks, now resembling leather more than food, were left unattended as Soldier Boy decided to tackle the vegetables next. He tossed them into a pan with the questionable sauce, figuring it would “add flavor.”
Gunpowder, desperate to be useful, grabbed the salad kit from the fridge and began to assemble it, only to find himself completely out of his depth when it came to dressing. After a moment’s hesitation, he poured the entire bottle of ranch on it, figuring more was better.
As the kitchen filled with smoke and the vegetables began to burn, the rest of the team started trickling in, drawn by the commotion. Black Noir was first, poking his head around the corner and immediately backing away when he saw the mess.
“What the hell are you two doing?” Swatto asked, buzzing into the kitchen with his usual cocky grin.
“Making dinner,” Soldier Boy snapped, glaring at him as if daring him to say more.
“For who? The fire department?” Swatto shot back, earning a low growl from Soldier Boy.
The TNT Twins arrived next, both immediately bursting into laughter as they took in the scene. “This is your plan?” Tommy said, barely able to get the words out between chuckles. “Dude, you’re gonna kill her with that.”
“I’d rather eat a bullet,” Tessa added, shaking her head with mock pity.
“Shut up and set the table,” Soldier Boy growled, his frustration mounting as he tried to salvage the steaks by flipping them over—only to realize they were beyond saving, burnt to a crisp on one side, and raw on the other.
By now, Crimson Countess had caught wind of the chaos and came to investigate, her curiosity piqued by the noise and the thick smoke now billowing out of the kitchen. She entered just as Soldier Boy was trying to extract the charred vegetables from the pan, bits of sauce splattering everywhere.
“Oh my god,” she said, taking in the sight of the disaster before her. “What the hell happened in here?”
“We were just—uh—trying to surprise you,” Gunpowder stammered, his face red as he tried to save the mess.
“It’s our anniversary dinner,” Soldier Boy said, a mix of pride and frustration in his voice as he gestured to the table, which now held a pile of what could generously be called food.
Countess looked at the steaks, the burnt vegetables, and the drenched salad, trying hard not to laugh. “Ben… this is sweet, but maybe we should’ve just gone out like we always do?”
“Hell no!” Soldier Boy said, though even he was starting to realize the extent of the disaster they’d created. “We’ve got this under control.”
Just then, the fire alarm began blaring, triggered by the smoke that had finally set off the sensors. Mindstorm appeared, rubbing his temples as the noise aggravated his headache even more. “Could you not?” he groaned, his voice pained.
“Swatto, get that damn thing!” Soldier Boy barked, and Swatto buzzed up to the alarm, yanking it out of the wall with a grin.
With the alarm silenced, the team gathered around the table, all eyes on Soldier Boy as he tried to present the meal with some semblance of pride.
Crimson Countess took a seat, her expression a mix of amusement and affection. “Well, I appreciate the effort, Ben.”
“It’s the thought that counts, right?” Soldier Boy said, grabbing a fork and stabbing one of the steaks. It made a sound that no steak should ever make, and he sighed in defeat.
The rest of the team followed suit, each of them gingerly poking at the food on their plates. Gunpowder took a cautious bite of the salad, wincing as the overwhelming taste of ranch dressing hit his tongue.
Black Noir lifted his fork with a slice of the “steak” and gave Soldier Boy a thumbs up—though his eyes betrayed his true feelings.
Finally, after several long minutes of trying to force down the inedible meal, Crimson Countess set her fork down and smiled. “Okay, I think it’s time we call it and go out for dinner.”
“Yeah,” Soldier Boy admitted, tossing his fork aside. “This… didn’t turn out exactly how I planned.”
Countess laughed softly, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “It’s the thought that counts, Ben. But maybe next time, we’ll leave the cooking to the professionals.”
The team quickly abandoned the charred remains of their anniversary dinner, piling into the van to head to the nearest restaurant. As they drove off, the banter and teasing filled the air, the chaos of the evening already becoming a shared joke among them.
And as they enjoyed a much more edible meal at the restaurant, Soldier Boy found himself relaxing, a grin slowly spreading across his face. Maybe he’d failed at the cooking, but he’d succeeded in making the night memorable—and that was worth something.
As they clinked their glasses in a toast to the disastrous dinner, Soldier Boy leaned back in his chair, content to let someone else handle the cooking from now on. He was a soldier, not a chef, and that was just fine with him.