Title: Flambé
Series: FE10
Character/Pairing: Tormod/Sothe
Rating: PG-13
Summary: AU. Tormod fails at cooking, Sothe helps him hide the evidence from Micaiah.
Author's note: kink meme: fluffy Tormod/Sothe which isn't smut and involves burning things. It's for Ammy for help_japan.

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Tormod hummed the Mission Impossible theme to himself as he looked around corners. The coast was clear, but he did a super spy sneaky walk, just because it was too awesome to not do. Sometimes, you just had to give into the inner dork. Tormod did this all the time, thus his life was like, ten times more cool than most people's.

The kitchen was small, a little worn out with an ugly avocado green colored fridge and counters, but it was clean and very workable. Tormod grabbed the remote, and flipped on the tv in the other room. If he turned just so, he could make out what was happening on his favorite cooking show. He looked longingly at the now empty, drawer of knives. After a very tense trip to the local hospital, Tormod wasn't allowed to cut tomatoes anymore. Or anything, really. Micaiah had confiscating his knives, but she couldn't lock away the entire stove. Tormod turned the tv up loud. He pulled on a Kiss The Cookapron on haphazardly, with one side higher than the other. It had barbeque stains, and was a gag gift for Nolan which Sothe apparently lifted from some store.

On the tv screen, the grinning cook threw some vegetables in a stewing pot of awesomeness which Tormod was going to emulate–with some changes. Tormod wasn't great at following the recipe, as following instructions was never really his strong suit. When it called for a pinch, he put in a cup. In Tormod's thinking, you couldn't have too much of a good thing, even if it was salt.

Tormod turned the flame on full blast.

"Bam!Flame on!"

He opened up cans of tomatoes and dumped them in. He opened an entire thing of cayenne pepper, sniffed it and poured the whole thing in. What food needed was a little spice. Actually, a lot. He craned his neck to see what was up with his bro in the kitchen. He loved this guy. The cook would do a happy dance when he was finished, to the tune of happy, electronic dance music, and Tormod would join in, even though usually his stuff wasn't finished by then.

Maybe he got a little too into the happy dance, or maybe it was just his explosive personality, because Tormod was interrupted from his swaying by a thick, noxious black smoke coming from the pot, like he'd put gasoline in, and not just lots of tomatoes and cayenne and...lighter fluid? Tormod lifted up the empty can of what was supposed to be tabasco sauce. Whoops, he hadn't meant to put it there.

"This one wasn't supposed to be flambé!"

He reached desperately for the fire extinguisher–which was always near after last time he'd almost burned the house down, and aimed it straight at the flames. White clouds enveloped the flames, snuffing them out and just leaving a giant mess in their wake.

Tormod was smoky, covered in wet, cool, fire extinguisher stuff, and now he had evidence of another kitchen disaster to hide. Plus, his kitchen bro show was over now, and he didn't even find out the secret ingredient.

Well, damn.

The bottom of the pot was blackened. The food–or what had once been food–was burnt to the bottom of the pan. Nothing about this was remotely awesome or salvageable.

"Not again!" He groaned.

He heard the door close, and for a minute there, he stiffened and looked nervously around. But it was just Sothe coming around the corner, not any of the Dawn Brigade back from their protests, or worse yet, Micaiah to find out he'd broken her kitchen ban and ruined another of her pans.

Sothe had new red highlights in his hair. It matched his leather red and green corset. He was a walking seasonal special–with parachute pants–but Tormod still thought it was pretty hot in a ironic sort of way. Like if a hipster and an emo kid had some hot, sullen, thieving spawn, Sothe would be it.

"That apron would be a lot hotter if you weren't burning down the place again," Sothe said in a disinterested manner.

"Maybe it's not hot, but it's hot–get it?" Tormod said.

Sothe rolled his eyes. "You're not getting any of it," Sothe said.

Tormod pointed to Kiss The Cookon his apron in a hopeful manner. Sothe ignored it.

"Did I mention that you look like a sexy pine tree with all the seasonal decorations?" Tormod said hopefully.

"Did I mention on how you're sleeping on the couch tonight?" Sothe said.

"Awww man," Tormod said.

Sothe nudged the blackened pan with a large, metal spoon. "Micaiah's going to kill you for ruining another one of her pans. I can only steal so many cars to keep you off your case, you know."

"But she's vegan and stuff," Tormod said. "She can't kill me. And wait—you've been stealing cars without me?"

"That just means she won't eat you after she kills you," Sothe said. "And that was metaphorically speaking."

"Okay, good," Tormod said. "You can steal metaphorical cars by yourself, but I will be totally pissed if you do the real ones without me. We're forever boy-bros, and you're not allowed to cheat on me on anything but petty lifting."

Sothe rolled his eyes. His blase sullenness was so hot. That and his corsets. Mixed together, he was just a bundle of teenage hormones, bad boy charm and serious hotness. Boyfriends was way too mainstream for them. They were boy-bros, which contained the mixed coolness of brodom and sex on the side when Sothe wasn't pissed at him. Also, thieving and burning, which was always a plus.

"You know," Tormod began. He grinned slyly, and nudged Sothe in the side. "This means we have to run away and begin a life of crime across the continent so she doesn't catch us."

"Or we could just get take out, bury the evidence and blame it on Edward and Leonardo," Sothe said.

"I love your evil plans," Tormod said. This earned him a slight smile.

Tormod put on the brown woven oven mits and picked up his latest pan disaster. Sothe left, and returned with a shovel slung over his shoulder. They walked out past the yard, where it would be obvious, past the woods, where Micaiah would mediate and likely find the evidence, all the way to near the slums. They sort of looked like a bank robbing duo, if banks could be robbed with nothing but ruined pans, a shovel and copious amounts of teenage angst and hormones.

Tormod was already thinking of nicknames for them. The Terrible Two. The Awesome Bunch. The Not So Ambiguously Gay Duo. They could even switch around for variety. There'd be tons of seedy motels, where they'd roll in bags of money. Now thatwas a happy ending.

"By the time we graduate to hiding bodies, we are going to be total pros..." Tormod said. "You know what they say: friends help you move, but real friends help you move the bodies..."

Sothe scoffed, but Tormod knew he was hiding a laugh.

"At this rate, I'm going to have to take up stripping too, just to distract Micaiah from your kitchen disasters," Sothe said.

"Ooh! Ooh!" Tormod said. "I'll buy you up for endless lapdances!"

"You can't afford me," Sothe said. He pushed his seasonal red and green hair out of his face.

"Well, then, I'll just have to rob a bank or something. You'd help me out with the bank robbing, right?" Tormod said.

Sothe turned to him. "Like you even have to ask?"

Sothe was stronger than Tormod–the lucky bastard even had abs,so he got the duty call when it came to shoveling. But they could get away with a shallow grave, so it was only a few shovelfuls of dirt before they were dumping the evidence and covering it over again.

"And now we lay to rest this pan, now known as Blackie. He died valiantly," Tormod said.

"Like many other pans before him, who all died for the sake of your kitchen skills–or lack thereof," Sothe said.

"Shut up, I'm going to be awesome at cooking one day, just you wait–!" Tormod said.

Sothe scoffed again. "Sure you will. Come on, I'll treat you to take out. You want Goldoan this time?"

"Sounds good to me–we haven't have Goldoan in ages," Tormod said.

For the first time, Tormod noticed that he was still wearing his Kiss The Cookapron, and oven mits. "I should probably change."

Sothe shrugged. "We can just eat on the corner. You should probably take off the mits if you want to eat, though."

Tormod grinned brightly. He loved that despite Sothe's highlights and corsets and ironic sense of fashion, he was just fine with Tormod running around like he just survived a disaster.

"Unless you feed me then," Tormod teased.

Sothe cracked a slight smile at this. "You'll owe me one."

"I can deal with that," Tormod said. He threw his arm about Sothe's shoulders and Sothe let him, even if he was getting debris all over his favorite corset. He was just cool like that.