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Yelena Belova was annoyed.
Beyond annoyed.
She was hungry and she couldn’t get this goddamed toaster to work.
Yelena hit the toaster, “Give me back my bread! Give it -” it beeped back at her. “Sukin syn!” She cursed
(Son of a Bitch!).
She turned to her older sister, who was cackling in delight. “Something funny?”
Natasha clamped down on her lips, which only made her laugh more at Yelena’s outraged face.
“Suka.” Yelena sniped. (Bitch).
“Parshivets.” Natasha returned. (Brat).
“Come on, Natalia!” Yelena whined, “You know how these work! Don’t you live with a millionaire?”
Natasha shrugged, green eyes twinkling, “I have people to do those things for me.”
Yelena glared and turned back to the toaster and grabbed the nearby knife.
Natasha shot up on her perch on the sofa, almost falling over. “Are you
insane?”
Yelena spun, “What’s the matter this time, Natalia?”
“You don’t put
metal
in a
toaster,
you
idiot!”
“Well, help me then!”
Natasha clucked her tongue “Trial by error, Little Sister.”
Yelena gaped and was about to throw something at her sister, knowing she’d catch it, when a small, sleepy figure made her way into the room.
“Simmons?” Natasha kept her voice low as the scientist sleepily made her way to the toaster.
The scientist, not noticing them, pressed a button, plucked the toast out of the toaster, put it on a plate and started buttering it.
Natasha burst out laughing at the pure shock on her sister’s face. The sound alerted Simmons, who lept about a foot in the air. “M-M-Miss Romanoff, Miss Belova, I didn’t mean to interrupt -” She stammered out.
Natasha waved a hand, “Not to worry. I think Yelena could use your help.”
Jemma stared at the toast, “W-with this?”
Yelena stared at the toast, then at Simmons, then back again, “How did you do that?”
“I - Pardon?” Jemma stared at the toast. “Was this yours?”
“It was meant to be.” Natasha answered for her. “Yelena can’t cook.”
Jemma stared, “It’s toast.”
Natalia smirked at her sister, “Believe me,
I know.”
Yelena scowled.
“What’re you doing up anyway, Simmons?” Natasha asked in a gentler tone.
Jemma shrugged, “I couldn’t sleep and the smell of toast was making me hungry.”
Yelena was still staring and Jemma shifted under her gaze, “I can teach you...if you want?”
Yelena nodded enthusiastically, “Please.”
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Jemma turned away from the toast to face the sisters, “How on earth did you manage to cook when you were younger?”
“I killed my targets and ate them whenever I was hungry.” Yelena deadpanned. “I’d have them roasted sometimes, too.”
Natasha snorted.
Jemma smiled slightly, “Two of the most deadliest assassins and you can’t make toast.”
Yelena scowled again, “How many languages do you speak, Simmons?”
“Just one.” Jemma answered, then added innocently, “How many PhDs do you have again, Miss Belova?”
Natasha burst out laughing, “I like you, Simmons.”
Jemma beamed at the praise.
“Znayu vse eto.” Yelena muttered. (Know it all).
Jemma looked confused, then asked, somewhat timidly, “Is that Russain?”
Yelena inclined her head, “Da.”
“Could you - would you be able to teach me?” Jemma was twisting her fingers around each other nervously, “I’ve always wanted to be multilingual, but languages were never my strong suit.”
“We’d be happy to.” Natasha answered for both of them.
“As long as you teach me how to cook.” Yelena added.
Jemma nodded, “Happy to.” She repeated Natasha’s words.
“Olivkovaya vetv’. An olive branch.” Yelena held out her hand for Jemma to take. “Yelena Belova. I, apparently, cannot cook.”
Jemma took Yelena’s hand, accepting the unspoken apology for the events of the last few days. “Jemma Simmons. I’d be happy to teach you.”