Work Text:
You are perilously close to destroying the makeshift kitchen. If you graze your hand on the burner one more time you may damn it all and throw it through the window; another repair to add to yours and Miranda’s list.
It’s sweet, what she’s doing to better the place for Eva, but ultimately infuriating. You don’t consider a room without a layer of dust and grime to be unreasonable. Though you can’t tell by the state of the place.
“Good morning.” Her voice comes from behind you.
You jump and true to form, you graze your hand against the hot burner, swearing lowly, “Damn it!”
Miranda raises an eyebrow. She’s dressed in a long, dark robe, absent of any head covering with her short hair lying perfectly. If you didn’t love her constant composure, it would add to your current mood.
“Damning the burner won’t soothe your wounds.”
“No, but it will keep me from going insane.”
Her mouth twitches, “Insanity on you could be appealing.”
You glare. Ignoring the spark of warmth her words inspire, you turn back to the eggs in the pan, flipping them gently. You hold your breath until it’s evident the yolks are whole. Eva loves them unbroken and you want to make her happy; as if the bare minimum doesn’t impress the little girl.
A hand settles on your hip and another turns your head. You’re pulled back away from the burner.
“Good morning.” She repeats.
“Good morning, Miranda.” You return.
The hand on your face slips below your chin and pulls you to a cold, but soft pair of lips. You melt nonetheless. You find your mouth dominated by her own lips and tongue, moaning shamelessly when fingernails dig into your hip.
Miranda is everywhere. You’re not sure if that’s a product of the Cadou or her, but you won’t complain, not when she controls you so deliciously.
You’re released suddenly. The whine that leaves your mouth is involuntary, but mirth dances in Miranda’s eyes. She motions back to the burner and you jump to take the eggs off before they overcook.
Three plates sit waiting on the table, one a piece of beautiful china, inlaid with blue and baby pink flowers, the others plain pieces of porcelain; Eva’s eggs are added to the fine china. There’s already warm toast with accompaniments of butter and jam and fresh vegetables. You turn around and change the old pan to a fresh pot, throwing ingredients into saltwater.
“Mămăligă cu Lapte?”
You hum, “She likes it.”
“It’s peasant food.”
“Peasant food that your daughter enjoys. Your prejudice is your problem alone.”
Your neck cracks as you’re yanked by the hair, sharp nails digging into your scalp. It’s delightful and awful. Miranda’s form is stiff against your back.
“Careful.”
“I’m sorry.” You whisper back.
You’re not. Not even in the slightest. However, you’re going to overcook breakfast if she doesn’t let go of you.
As if reading your mind, she sighs, “No, you’re not.”
She lets you take up your place in front of the pot, stirring in slow circles. Miranda pours herself a cup of coffee and settles at the—very messy—table. It’s covered in diagrams and notes bearing her writing. You offer a pointed glance, but she waves you off.
A haphazard stack of paper is lifted from her place at the table and tossed on another surface. You grit your teeth—her papers should be in her workshop. No matter how many times you move them, they appear back in your space. You’re almost convinced she moves them back to drive you crazy.
Miranda watches you work over the rim of her cup. You blush under her unwavering gaze, but try to hide your reaction. She’s smug enough.
Down the hall, a door opens. Miranda’s eyes are drawn to the doorway. There’s the quiet scuffling of footsteps before Eva walks into the kitchen, clad in an oversized nightshirt, hair lying in messy blonde waves around her face. Her fists rub furiously at her eyes.
“Good morning, Eva.” Miranda says.
She holds a hand out, which Eva takes, and finds herself pulled in. Miranda kisses the top of her head.
“Morning, Mama,” Eva yawns, then patters over to lean against you, “Morning, Ursa.”
You smile at the nickname and run your free hand through her hair, gently working through any tangles. She yawns and leans into you more.
“Morning, my little star, sleep well?”
Eva makes a small affirmative noise, “Had weird dreams.”
“What of?”
“Scary men, like wolves. They had sharp teeth.”
You share a look with Miranda. Her eyes give away nothing, but the set of her jaw is tense. This isn’t the first time Eva’s had dreams about the deformed creatures that once roamed the village.
“Those are weird. It’s good that your Mama is around to protect you from odd wolf-men, isn’t it?”
“Mhm.”
The burner is turned off and you transfer a healthy portion of porridge to yours and Eva’s plates. She clutches onto your skirt while you drift between the counter and the table. It’s a wonder you don’t trip or spill anything with her hold limiting your mobility.
Miranda’s acquainting herself with the last of her notes from the night before. A black pen is poised in her fingers and scribbling corrections now that she has a clear mind. You slide a plate in front of her, she only lets out a small noise of acknowledgement.
“Eva, darling, why don’t you sit down and eat your breakfast?” You suggest.
You pull out the chair next to Miranda and help the sleepy child into it. She rubs her eyes one last time before they widen, the gorgeous plate before her covered in food. She pokes at all of it with the fork you offer.
“You did all of this for me?” Eva asks.
“Of course. Who else?” You grin, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Miranda’s eyes catch your own over Eva’s head. The look in them makes you smile wider than before, your heart fluttering in the cage that is your chest. You’re pleased when she takes a bite and nods.
“Say thank you, Eva.” Miranda instructs.
Through a mouthful of porridge, “Ph’ank ‘ou!”
“Eva.”
Eva swallows down the mouthful, not the slightest bit contrite. Her eyes sparkle with amusement. It’s infectious and you offer her a wink when Miranda isn’t paying attention. The little girl descends into quiet giggles.
“Thank you, Ursa!”
“Anything for you, little star.”
You cross around the table and place a kiss on Miranda’s forehead, ignoring her grumbling, before returning to clean up your mess. You’re more cautious of the hot elements this time around.