Questionable Edibles

By The Odd Little Turtle

(Marvel owns them. "Not I," said the fly.

These little things keep popping in my head. On an Illyana and Piotr kick, I guess. I'm supposed to be rejuvenating the basement today. Ah well. Enjoy!

Characters are the same from the last drabble.)

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Having been in her brother's care since she was eleven, Illyana was used to American food. Mama had taught her how make simple meals, but coming to America gave way to new avenues of tastes (not to mention sights and smells) as America was a conglomeration of different cultures. For example, Illyana's current favorite place was the take-out Cantonese restaurant just down the street that served the best spaghetti she'd tasted. Having stowed away on the Blackbird for a mission or two to Italy, Illyana was pretty sure she knew what real spaghetti was supposed to taste like. But she preferred the sauce at Mu Wing's Cantonese and American Cuisine Buffet and Take Out.

But I digress. She wasn't craving spaghetti. She missed Mama's cooking.

It was times like this that Illyana felt very homesick. The blonde little Russian sat at the kitchen island on one of the black leather stools, pajama-clad legs dangling. Her pointed chin rested in one palm, the index finger of her other hand sticking to the surface of the stainless steel top as she traced lazy circles. Piotr set her breakfast plate in front of her. She hefted a flaxen brow at the burned toast.

Really missed Mama's cooking.

She wrinkled her nose and looked up at her elder brother, their matching blue eyes meeting, hers narrowing dangerously. "Toast is supposed to be golden brown," she told him. Holding his eyes for a moment longer, she then looked down, poked the offending food—no, not food, she thought, food was supposed to be edible—with her butter knife. "What's the toaster's setting?" She poked the blackened toast again.

Piotr gave an exasperated sigh and snatched the plate back. Why did she have to be so picky? He was doing the best he could. It wasn't like he had broken the toaster purposely. The setting switch had just snapped off one day. Stupid, cheap toaster.

Using a knife, he scraped the toast over the sink until the black was gone, and it was, ah, sort of golden. It was striped with brown. Close enough. He put the newly appointed golden brown toast back on her plate and set it down with flourish.

Illyana pushed the plate away with a dainty pointed finger.

"If you don't eat, you'll grow up little," he told her irritated with her behavior, retrieving his own crispy toast and adding it to his plate.

"Little is preferable," she told him. Using her butter knife, she flipped the toast over. Black on that side too. "Isn't this some form of child abuse?"

He grunted. To Illyana's horror, he smeared his piece with grape jam.

Took a bite.

Looked a little green afterwards.

"Breakfast Buffet?" he queried.

No argument there. "Da. And Smarty-Mart. You're getting a new toaster."

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