1890 — Spain
"Out of the kitchen, out," he chided, prodding Valencia's arm with the edge of a baguette he was wielding as a sword. He was going to make breakfast, allegedly. In reality he planned to cede the space to her in twenty minutes or so, when he had made an absolute mess of everything. Adorable mess was the vibe he was cultivating this morning. It had been his idea to give the housekeeper who usually prepared their meals the day off, so that neither of them would have to get dressed all day long. But what will we eat? Valencia had asked, tone indulgent — like a mother playing along with a child's game of make-believe, waiting for them to realize the impossibilities themselves rather than being the bearer of bad news. I'll cook, he had insisted, as valiant as though he had offered to slay a dragon for her, and now here they were. The housekeeper off for the day, Don Juan in the kitchen clad only in an apron he hadn't yet gotten around to tying, Valencia with an expression that was both amused and apprehensive.
"How can I cook with no space?" he teased, as he finally got her through the door. His Spanish was better now. So was her English. He'd started to teach her: settled in bed, with her curled on his chest, he'd pick a poem from one of the books he'd packed when he left England and read it out to her in a slow, lilting tone. At each line he'd glance down to her face and see if her brow had furrowed, a sign of confusion, and once he'd identified the word she didn't know he'd list off synonyms, still in English, until she understood. Quivering, he might say, To quiver. Tremble, shake, convulse, flutter, agitate, twitch, shudder.
It was important to him that she understand poetry. He had seized upon the idea that it would make it easier for her to meet his parents.
The eggs, which had started off fried and since become scrambled, were beginning to brown at the edges, but still looked undercooked in the centers. He was frowning at the pan and weighing the relative evils of either burning the eggs or serving them raw when he noticed Valencia watching him from the doorway, and he dropped the task of cooking entirely in favor of teasingly chasing her off again. She was arguing that he clearly had no idea what he was doing and she ought to help now while things could still be salvaged (a sound argument) when a knock came from the door.
"You get it," he said, sticking out his tongue. "You're dressed."
(He'd argued with her about that — it defeated the whole point of the day. But she'd dressed before he was fully awake, so he'd eventually decided it would be easier to wait until after breakfast and disrobe her than it would be to talk her back out of them.)
The eggs were salvaged, barely. He used the wrong knife to slice the baguette and it squished down to something barely recognizable as bread. He stood frowning at it for a second, waiting for it to spring back up and growing increasingly disappointed when it did not. Eventually he decided to give up on it and went to check the other pan, with slivers of bacon. These looked decidedly burnt, so he took them off the stove and started taking them straight to the bin — but the door to the kitchen was on his way, so when he reached it he popped his head out, burnt bacon pan still in hand, and asked, "Who was it, at the door?"
But he needn't have asked, as it turned out, because she was still at the door and Don Juan recognized her almost immediately.
"How can I cook with no space?" he teased, as he finally got her through the door. His Spanish was better now. So was her English. He'd started to teach her: settled in bed, with her curled on his chest, he'd pick a poem from one of the books he'd packed when he left England and read it out to her in a slow, lilting tone. At each line he'd glance down to her face and see if her brow had furrowed, a sign of confusion, and once he'd identified the word she didn't know he'd list off synonyms, still in English, until she understood. Quivering, he might say, To quiver. Tremble, shake, convulse, flutter, agitate, twitch, shudder.
It was important to him that she understand poetry. He had seized upon the idea that it would make it easier for her to meet his parents.
The eggs, which had started off fried and since become scrambled, were beginning to brown at the edges, but still looked undercooked in the centers. He was frowning at the pan and weighing the relative evils of either burning the eggs or serving them raw when he noticed Valencia watching him from the doorway, and he dropped the task of cooking entirely in favor of teasingly chasing her off again. She was arguing that he clearly had no idea what he was doing and she ought to help now while things could still be salvaged (a sound argument) when a knock came from the door.
"You get it," he said, sticking out his tongue. "You're dressed."
(He'd argued with her about that — it defeated the whole point of the day. But she'd dressed before he was fully awake, so he'd eventually decided it would be easier to wait until after breakfast and disrobe her than it would be to talk her back out of them.)
The eggs were salvaged, barely. He used the wrong knife to slice the baguette and it squished down to something barely recognizable as bread. He stood frowning at it for a second, waiting for it to spring back up and growing increasingly disappointed when it did not. Eventually he decided to give up on it and went to check the other pan, with slivers of bacon. These looked decidedly burnt, so he took them off the stove and started taking them straight to the bin — but the door to the kitchen was on his way, so when he reached it he popped his head out, burnt bacon pan still in hand, and asked, "Who was it, at the door?"
But he needn't have asked, as it turned out, because she was still at the door and Don Juan recognized her almost immediately.
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3
