By The Odd Little Turtle Named Froggie
(This doesn't really fit in with my AU X-men fanfic The Warrior with No Name, but the characters are AU from that story. I'm thinking it may have taken place before the crunchy chicken noodle soup episode.
And I just had to. Wanted some laughs. Did I succeed?
Characters are owned by Marvel.)
Illyana Nikolievna Rasputina stared at the bowl of whitish mush, wrinkling her stubbed nose, flaxen eyebrows furrowing. The tinge of yellow worried her. Her brother's latest, ah, creation reminded her of melting yellow snow.
"'Never eat yellow snow,'" she murmured, eying it distrustfully and then the red-brown box from whence it came. With good reason, she thought. The bowl was hot to the touch having just come from the microwave, a great deal of steam emanating from the mush. With great reason, she mentally corrected, her black-tinted mouth thinning in displeasure.
Her elder brother, Piotr Nikoleivitch Rasputin, confirmed bachelor (and all-around stomach irritation), stood opposite her, towering six and a half feet tall, a white apron stretched across his broad chest, the bowl in question in his large oven-mitted hand. The distance between Illyana and aforementioned irritation was only the rectangular stainless steel-topped island of his Bronx apartment's kitchen. He hummed absently as he stirred the concoction with the wooden spoon.
"Your face will stay like that if you aren't careful, Little Snowflake," Piotr told his sister, amusement softening his features.
Illyana blew her golden bangs from her face absently wishing he'd let her dye her hair black. "The better choice, I'm sure," she told him, kohl-ringed blue eyes once again zeroing in on whatever was steaming in the bowl, becoming more and more dismayed as he slopped a drippy ivory-colored spoonful onto her plate. It didn't even make a mound of goo, just sloshed onto her questionably-colored meat and began to ooze itself around the outer edges of the dish.
"I have gravy," he said, helping himself to several spoonfuls. He held up a packet that read 'Excellent Savings Turkey Giblet Gravy' with a smile. His smile faded when his teenaged sister shook her blonde-haired head belligerently, her golden locks cascading about like an eel's upper and lower fins. "I won't burn it this time," he promised. Still she shook her head violently, and he dropped the subject and put the packet back on the counter behind him.
"What is this stuff?" she finally asked, poking it with her fork, wondered why he hadn't yet broke out the spoons.
He had the audacity to look hurt. "Buttered Potato Flakes."
"Da." He nodded, indicated the red-brown box with his fork as he sat on a black leather stool. "Just as the box says. Mashed potatoes."
Narrowing her azure eyes, Illyana clicked her tongue, crossed her arms reproachfully and lifted a delicate brow, effectively giving him "the look" that most women had perfected by the time they married. "Piotr Nikoleivitch," she stated in a tone one would take if explaining something to a small child, "if these are mashed potatoes, then a horde of pink weasels are going to take over the world."
(If no one laughs, I'll be very disappointed.)