Milk, Socks, and Fried Chuba

After being married a month, Anakin and Padmé find some of each other's habits hard to live with.

She was glaring at him. He was glaring at her. And one would've sworn that the picture on the wall was glaring at both of them.

Anakin Skywalker finally sighed and broke his wife's gaze. "It really isn't that big of a deal."

"Yes, it is," Padmé Naberrie Skywalker informed him. "It's unsanitary for one thing. And just plain gross! You should have better manners."

Anakin shot her a look. "I've been doing it since I was little."

"I'm surprised no one has told you to stop before now."

Anakin was about to say what he thought of that comment, but couldn't help the laugh that escaped him.

Padmé shot him a look. "I see nothing funny about this."

"We're fighting over the damn milk!" He chuckled.

Padmé tried, but she couldn't help but smile. "Actually, we were fighting over you drinking it out of the carton."

"Same thing," he told her, with a flip of his hand. He looked over at her, smiling slyly.

"So now we're all made up after our fist real fight, over the milk carton, would you like to celebrate?" He glanced in the general direction of their bedroom.

Padmé sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. "You're impossible."

"But you love me anyway."

"I'm beginning to wonder why I ever married you," she joked.

Anakin smiled. "Maybe it's my stunning good looks and charming personality," he told her, leaning over and covering her mouth with his.

***

Anakin frowned as he looked around the fresher. Padmé had finally finished whatever she was doing about ten minutes ago. Honestly! The woman spent a full time-part in here! And, he thought, she left everything everywhere again. A towel had been flung over the sink, and a razor sat next to it. Her shampoo bottle was in the shower, as well as soap and a washrag. The floor was damp, and another towel lay crumpled in a corner. For the queen who can't stand not having her socks sorted by color, she sure is a slob! He sighed and picked up the two towels, hanging them on the rack, and shoved her razor and shampoo back into a drawer. He then grabbed another towel and mopped up the water on the floor, hanging it up with the other two. Anakin looked around, satisfied at the now semi-clean fresher, and vowed to have a talk with Padmé about picking up her stuff.

***

Padmé lay in bed, awake, trying to ignore Anakin's loud snoring. It wasn't easy. Usually, she just tried to get to sleep before him. Sometimes, she stuffed a sock in his mouth. And on nights like tonight, it was all she could do to refrain from smacking him up-side the head.

Another ten minutes passed, with Anakin's snoring getting seemingly louder and louder. Padmé rolled over onto her side, facing away from him, but it didn't lessen the noise. Finally she gave up, and climbed out of bed to go find that sock.

She reached into his sock drawer and grabbed the first one her hand found. She pulled it out (Anakin never did match his socks up, telling her he couldn't care less whether or not they matched) and walked back over to the bed. Climbing in, she reached over and stuffed it in his open mouth. After waiting a few minutes to make sure it would work, she nodded, satisfied, and rolled over. She was asleep within minutes.

***

Anakin was, to say the least, upset about the sock. It had happened before, and every time he ended up with little threads of cotton stuck in his mouth. He glanced over at the other side of the bed. Padmé was still asleep. He didn't really care that she claimed to do it because she couldn't sleep with his snoring. Anakin knew for a fact that he did not snore.

He sat up, running a hand through his short hair and wiggling his tongue around, trying to get the cottony taste out of it. He stood up, throwing the covers back on the bed and headed for the fresher to get some mouthwash.

***

Anakin stood before it. Scared out his wits that Padmé had gone off to do something (getting her hair styled, presumably) and left him here, alone.

Anakin braced himself, and went where no man had gone before...

The kitchen.

Padmé had told him there was a detailed recipe for whatever it was she wanted for dinner on the counter. He picked up the seemingly harmless datapad, flipping it on and reading the name of the dish.

It was all downhill from there.

Padmé had clearly forgotten that the recipe was in her native language of Nubian, and that Anakin spoke not a word of it. Okay, okay... think, he told himself. I'll just go find that translator. I'm sure it's here somewhere.

After a half time-part, Anakin was trying to find a different recipe. One that was in Basic, preferably, though Huttese or even Bocce would do. He finally found another datapad in a drawer, which contained a Huttese recipe for fried chuba that he figured his mother must've sent to them at some point. As he read over the recipe and the dish's contents, his frown grew deeper. He turned to the 'fridge, crossed his fingers, and pulled open the door.

After five minutes of searching he was rewarded with one frozen chuba (though he wasn't sure how long it had been there), and most everything else he needed. He glanced at the recipe again. "Hmm..." he pulled open one of the cabinet doors and looked through it. "Salt, salt, salt... Ah! Salt." He pulled a jar off of the shelf and sat it down next to the other ingredients. Then went to find a bowl and frying pan. He mixed everything but the chuba in the bowl, doing exactly as the recipe said. He skinned the chuba with his lightsaber, coating it with the stuff in the bowl then dropping it onto the frying pan. He set the timer, and as he watched the chuba frying, he was quite proud of himself for not screwing up.

***

Padmé inhaled deeply as she stepped through the door. What is that? It smelled absolutely wonderful. She followed her nose to the kitchen where she found Anakin standing in front of the stove glaring at whatever was in the frying pan. She walked up beside and looked too. It look like some kind of meat, though she wasn't sure what kind, and it did not look like the recipe she had left him.

"What's that?"

"Fried chuba."

"That isn't the recipe I left you."

He turned his glare on her. "The recipe you left was in Nubian." She gave him a "so-what" look. "I don't speak Nubian, remember?"

"Oh! I completely forgot!" Padmé exclaimed, giving him a pitying look. "You oughta learn to."

Anakin shot her a look. "I don't want to learn to speak Nubian. I'm fine with Basic."

She shot him a look, then glanced back at the chuba. It really did smell good. "How much longer?"

Anakin frowned, "Shouldn't be too much more. It's been frying for about 45 minutes now."

"How long did the recipe say to cook it?"

Anakin shrugged, handing the datapad to Padmé.

She glanced at it, confused. "I can't read it, Anakin."

"Oh? Why not?"

"'Cause it's in..." she stopped, seeing his grin. "Why you little..." She snatched a towel off the counter, snapping it at him.

"Who you callin' little?" He stepped back away from the towel. Padmé rolled it in her hands, then let it fly, hitting him straight on the buttox. "Hey!" he cried indignantly. "Gimme that!"

He lunged for the towel and Padmé sidestepped, causing Anakin to trip and fall, dragging her down with him. They wrestled over the towel for a minute or two. Anakin rolled over, grinning down at her, and then bent to kiss her.

***

It was ten minutes later that an alarm started going off. It was three minutes after that when two security officers, armed with fire extinguishers, found Anakin and Padmé on the floor kissing, with the fried chuba on the stove behind them in flames.

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