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There was no way this going to end well.
"Oh, come on, babe, stop looking at me like that," Yelena drawled, setting the mixer she had in her arms on the counter. I raised my eyebrows a little more, deepening my signature concerned partner frown. To tell you the truth, my expression was just a front, and I was thoroughly looking forward to seeing Yelena's attempt at chocolate cupcakes, but she wouldn't waterboard that information out of me.
"You tried to make mac and cheese last week and burned it. You can't even make pasta, Yelena."
"...Okay, so maybe cooking isn't my forte—" She almost dropped the glass measuring cup, but she managed to catch it in time. I closed my eyes, running my fingers along my forehead in exasperation. "—but maybe baking is!"
The bowl that was balanced on her head fell to the ground with a clatter. Her gaze met mine, and she grinned sheepishly.
"While I prepare the kitchen to face my wrath, why don't you get the recipe and read me my ingredients?" she asked. Obediently, I picked up the piece of paper that was sitting in front of me, ready to read, when I came to a realisation (I frowned again).
"Something is not right here."
"What do you mean?" Yelena put her stuff down, coming over to me all concerned about this crinkled Post-It note. She looked over my shoulder, and when it clicked for her she made a noise.
"First of all, it's upside down." She rotated the recipe. I gave her a look.
"That's what's sticking out to you? Not the fact that you're asking me to read Russian?"
Yelena blinked at me innocently, as if she didn't really expect that to be a problem.
"I thought you picked up some stuff from me." She replied with a half-hearted shrug of her shoulders, taking the paper out of my hand and walking away. My only exposure to the Russian language through Yelena was curse words or under-the-breath comments that she knew would possibly lead to us physically fighting, so baking instructions were entirely out of my league.
As requested, I sat back and watched as Yelena roamed around our kitchen, getting whatever she thought she needed to bake a batch of cupcakes. I had a lot of confidence in Yelena for most things—she was quite an all-rounded woman, and a quick learner. But when one thinks of the term "child assassin" they don't really equate it to "master baker".
I raised my eyebrows as she proved my point about the Russian yet again—hissing a swear word. Yelena had tried to pour some flour straight out of the bag into the measuring cup that she had almost dropped, and had poured entirely too much. A mound of flour was now on the kitchen counter. Our eyes met again, and she looked away immediately.
This was going to be a very long afternoon.