Work Text:
The smell wafting from the kitchen was.. unique. A little burnt, a little sour, and somehow metallic, as if a skillet had been thrown into a blender. But you smiled anyway, because Mr. Scarletella, your newfound malewife, self-declared and ever-dedicated, had worked so hard.
"Me... cook. For you," he said, proudly placing a plate on the table. His eyes sparkled with the anticipation of your approval, his thin lips twitching into what he probably thought was a smile. The dish looked... adventurous. A mountain of mushy green paste sat atop a charred, unidentifiable lump of something, garnished with what might have been raw spaghetti. Or something.
You swallowed hard. This was about love, not survival. You could do this.
“Wow, Scarletella,” you said with a big, brave smile. “You really outdid yourself this time!”
His chest puffed up, and he practically vibrated with joy. “Me... try... best. For you.”
With shaky hands, you picked up your fork. The green mush jiggled. The smell hit you full-force, a combination of rotten eggs and melted pennies. Still, you stabbed the lump and brought it to your mouth. For him.
The moment it touched your tongue, your eyes watered. The taste was indescribable, like expired fish mixed with battery acid and a pinch of despair. You gagged involuntarily, your throat convulsing in protest.
“Good?” Scarletella asked eagerly, leaning so close you could see the pride etched into his expression.
You couldn’t speak. Not because you were speechless, but because your body was actively rejecting the food. In a desperate bid to hide your reaction, you slammed your head onto the table, pretending it was an act of sheer joy.
“Scarletella,” you managed to choke out between coughs, your head still pressed against the wood. “This is... so unique. I’ve never tasted anything like it before.”
His chest swelled further, his expression practically glowing. “Me... glad. Me... make again?”
Your soul screamed, but your heart melted. You lifted your head with a weak smile. “Maybe not this exact recipe... but I love that you cooked for me. You’re amazing, Scarletella. Truly.”
His hands clapped together in excitement, the loud SMACK echoing in the room. “Me... learn. Me... make better.”
“Take your time,” you said, forcing the green mush to the edge of your plate in hopes of making it look eaten. “Cooking is all about practice, right?”
“Yes! Practice!” He nodded so vigorously it looked like his head might detach. “Me... practice. For you. Always.”
As he ran back to the kitchen, muttering about practice, you leaned back in your chair, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. Your taste buds might never recover, but the sheer joy in his face made it all worth it.
You’d just need to figure out how to politely dispose of the leftovers before round two.
You leaned back in your chair, still reeling from the culinary catastrophe, and watched as Scarletella bustled about the kitchen, muttering incoherently about "spoon, chop... mix... again." His form flickered faintly, a constant reminder that he was not of this world. His silhouette wavered with each enthusiastic movement, the faint glow of his spectral essence lighting up the dim room.
You sighed, a mix of amusement and disbelief. This wasn’t exactly how you’d imagined things would turn out when you made that deal to escape the spirit realm.
That place.. bleak, endless, and suffocating, had been your prison for what felt like an eternity. When Scarletella appeared, with his eerie, almost childlike demeanor and his broken grasp of language, he had seemed more like a nuisance than salvation.
“You… want out?” he had asked back then, tilting his head. “Me… make deal. You… mine. Together… forever.”
At the time, you hadn’t had much of a choice. Whatever together forever meant, it seemed better than being stuck in that forsaken limbo. So you agreed, expecting some ominous consequence, a curse, or a chain tying you to him in servitude.
Instead, you got this.
Scarletella hadn’t enslaved you. He hadn’t tried to dominate you or haunt you. No, he had somehow decided that together forever meant becoming your partner, a role he seemed to take both seriously and surprisingly literally.
“Me… learn human words,” he’d told you after your escape. “For you. Me... try be good.”
And he had tried. Oh, how he had tried. Watching TV to learn about humans, even if he held the remote backward. Mimicking characters in books he couldn’t actually read, making up words as he went. Picking up random chores and tasks, though his ghostly touch often caused more harm than good.
Like now.
Scarletella’s hands passed through a knife on the counter, sending it clattering to the floor. He yelped, then crouched down to retrieve it, his spectral form accidentally knocking over a glass in the process. You flinched as the glass shattered, but he immediately looked up at you with wide, hopeful eyes.
“Me... clean. You… no worry,” he said, his voice trembling with both embarrassment and determination.
You shook your head, chuckling softly despite yourself. “It’s fine, Scarletella. Really. Just... be careful.”
“Careful,” he repeated solemnly, as if the word was a sacred vow.
Though he was still a spirit, his dedication to this malewife role was unrelenting. He insisted on cooking, cleaning, even attempting to buy groceries (though that usually ended with him startling cashiers by phasing through the aisles, oh boy). His broken language and strange ways should have been frustrating, but instead, they were.. endearing.
Against all odds, you found yourself growing fond of him. Maybe it was the way he clung to every word you said, as if your approval was his lifeline. Maybe it was the earnestness in his clumsy efforts. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you, not with malice or possessiveness, but with a pure, almost childlike adoration.
Still, it was hard to forget the deal. You had no idea what together forever truly entailed. Was he bound to you? Were you bound to him? Could he leave, or would he fade if he tried? You didn’t know. But for now, he seemed content, and oddly enough, so were you.
“Me… make more?” Scarletella asked, holding up a new concoction that looked suspiciously like pudding mixed with... were those eggshells?
You smiled, forcing your voice to sound gentle. “Maybe tomorrow. Let’s just enjoy what we have for now, okay?”
His face lit up, and he nodded vigorously. “Okay. Tomorrow. Me… cook better!”
As you watched him walk around, mumbling broken promises of improvement, you couldn’t help but laugh softly. Life with a spirit wasn’t what you’d planned, but it was certainly never boring. Never!
The days following Scarletella’s discovery were… quiet. Too quiet.
It all started that morning, when you woke up to the usual, chaotic clatter of pans from the kitchen. Half-asleep, you wandered in to see Scarletella hunched over a pot, his static form flickering more than usual. He hadn’t noticed you yet, so you leaned against the doorframe, curious.
But then you saw it, a plate of untouched food. Not his usual mess, but something you’d carefully hidden away, unable to stomach yet too guilty to throw out. Scarletella’s hands hovered over the plate as he stared at it in silence, his glow dimmer than you’d ever seen it.
“Me... cook bad,” he whispered to himself, voice soft and trembling. “They... no like. Me... failure.”
Your heart dropped. Before you could say anything, Scarletella spun around and saw you standing there. His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face, and in an instant, he disappeared, fading into thin air before you could stop him.
For the next few days, Scarletella became a ghost in more ways than one. He avoided you entirely, disappearing the moment you entered a room. If you caught him trying to cook, he would vanish before you could speak. He no longer greeted you with his usual clumsy enthusiasm or attempted to show off his "creation".
The house felt unbearably empty without his chaotic energy.
One night, after yet another failed attempt to catch him in the kitchen, you slumped into a chair at the dining table. A single, half-burnt loaf of bread sat in front of you, a silent reminder of his efforts.
“Scarletella,” you called softly into the empty air. “I know you’re here. Please, just talk to me.”
No response.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry if I did. Your food… it might not be perfect, but I love how much effort you put into it. I love you, Scarletella. And I hate that you’re avoiding me.”
Still nothing. But then, a faint shimmer appeared in the corner of the room. Slowly, Scarletella materialized, his form dim and hesitant. He didn’t meet your eyes, his shoulders hunched in shame.
“You… no like,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Me… try hard. You... pretend.”
You stood and approached him, your movements slow and careful, as if he might disappear again at any moment. “I shouldn’t have pretended, and I’m sorry for that,” you admitted. “But it was never about your cooking, Scarletella. It’s about you. You’re the reason I smile every day. Your food doesn’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be perfect.”
He looked up at you, his eyes shimmering with ghostly tears. “Me… not enough?”
You shook your head firmly. “You’re more than enough. And if you still want to cook, I’ll help you. We can learn together. But I need you to stop disappearing on me, okay? You’re my partner, not my servant. You’re important to me.”
For a moment, he stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, hesitant smile spread across his face.
“Me… learn. With you,” he said, his glow returning faintly. “No more disappear. Me... promise.”
You smiled back, relief washing over you. “That’s all I need.”
He teleported closer, reaching out as if to touch your hand, though his ghostly fingers passed through yours. “You... love me?”
You chuckled softly, nodding. “Yeah, Scarletella. I love you.”
His glow brightened, and for the first time in days, he let out a soft, contented laugh. “Me... love you too.”
You walked in the front door, your arms weighed down with grocery bags as you kicked the door shut with your foot. The house was quiet, far too quiet for your liking, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease. It had been a few days since you and Scarletella had finally talked things through, but his presence still felt distant, like he was there, but not really there.
You set the groceries down with a sigh and glanced around, calling out for him, “Scarletella? You in here?”
No response.
You groaned, rubbing your forehead. “Don’t tell me he’s sulking in the kitchen again…” You turned to head toward the kitchen when something caught your eye, a flicker of light from the living room.
You blinked.
The TV was on.
But it wasn’t just any show playing, it was a cooking contest. A cooking contest? You thought, raising an eyebrow. Why would Scarletella have the TV on this channel? It was all dramatic shots of stressed chefs frantically chopping vegetables, talking about "perfecting their craft," and a screaming host telling someone their soufflé was collapsing.
You couldn’t remember ever having watched this kind of show, but now that you were paying attention, you noticed the name on the screen..
"GOURMET SHOWDOWN: RED MAN’S KITCHEN"
And then… there he was.
Mr. Scarletella..
Your jaw dropped, eyes wide in disbelief.
There he was, in full ghostly glory, proud, his glitching form hovering behind a chopping board, wearing an apron that read, “I PUT THE GHOST IN GOURMET!” He was trying to flip a pancake, which promptly slipped through his ghostly static hands and vanished into the air. You watched in utter bewilderment as Scarletella tried to casually pretend it didn’t happen, flicking his hands to make a slice of toast appear in front of him.
Wait…
Is that… is that toast?
You collapsed onto the couch in complete shock, the absurdity of it all finally hitting you like a ton of bricks. “Hold on,” you muttered to yourself, “is my malewife, who can barely cook a meal without destroying it, actually competing in a high-stakes cooking contest on national TV?”
Your mind was spinning. This had to be some kind of glitch in the matrix. Maybe you’d fallen asleep and were dreaming, like one of those weird “dream within a dream” situations, like Inception. Did I somehow get trapped in a cooking competition simulation?
You watched, utterly dumbfounded, as the other contestants threw nervous glances at Scarletella, who continued to flit around in enthusiasm, completely oblivious to the chaos he was causing. A chef tried to call him out, but Scarletella just stared at them with confusion, and then replied, “Me… flip pancake. Yes?”
“No, you ghosted the pancake!” another chef snapped. “How is that even possible?!”
“Me… flip again,” he said solemnly, his form flickering. Then, he tried again, this time with a plate of mashed potatoes that seemed to disappear into thin air before reappearing in a completely different location.
This was… this was not what you expected.
'So, let me get this straight,' you thought, resting your head against the back of the couch, 'I come home from running errands, and I find my malewife, my not-so-alive partner, competing in a cooking contest… on TV. And somehow, he’s got more cooking confidence than he ever had in our kitchen together.'
You snorted. “Okay, this is it. I’ve lost my mind. I’m watching a cooking competition with my casper, who didn’t know what a spatula was a week ago, and now he's a TV sensation.”
You glanced back at the screen as Scarletella triumphantly placed an immaculately-formed spaghetti tower in front of the judges. The plate was almost perfect, which was… frankly impossible, considering his previous disasters. The judges were all silent for a moment, blinking in confusion as if they weren’t sure how to react.
And then it hit you.
Is this guy actually good at cooking?
The judge who was trying to keep his composure leaned forward, fork in hand, and took a bite of Scarletella’s spaghetti. His eyes went wide, then narrowed in judgment. “This… is... a masterpiece,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “How did you… create this?”
Scarletella, ever the dramatic all-red guy, grinned. “Me… learn… watch… TV,” he said proudly, gesturing to the screen like it was a shining example of his mastery.
You rubbed your temples, fighting off a laugh. “Oh my god. I’m just going to pretend this is normal. Just for today.”
You threw yourself back onto the couch, eyes glued to the screen as the contest continued. Scarletella was genuinely holding his own, despite his usual clumsiness in the kitchen at home. You had to admit, he was somehow managing to pull it off.
“Me… win?” Scarletella asked softly to himself, almost hopeful. His ghostly form shimmered brighter with each bite of his dish the judges took.
“Well, I mean, if that's what you want to do now…” you muttered, still processing the sheer absurdity of it all, “then sure, go ahead. Just… don’t expect me to be your sous-chef when we get home.”
The TV segment ended with Scarletella being declared a finalist in the competition, and you watched in utter disbelief as the host made an announcement..
“And now, the moment you've all been waiting for! Scarletella, the Crimson Chef Extraordinaire, has not only impressed the judges but has also caught the attention of some of the most famous restaurants in the world! Chefs and culinary tycoons alike are clamoring for your recipe for the now-iconic Crimson Spaghetti Tower! Not only that, but several have extended you job offers to join their kitchens as a head chef!”
You sat frozen on the couch, your jaw slack as the camera zoomed in on Scarletella's glowing, flickering form. He tilted his head, the gears clearly turning in his mind as the host continued hyping him up.
“Scarletella, you’re a culinary revolution! How does it feel to go from humble beginnings, well, haunting kitchens, I assume, to being sought after by the best in the business?”
Scarletella blinked a few times. Then he finally spoke in his halting, broken way.
“Me… no want... work for others.”
The audience gasped. The host’s smile faltered, confusion flashing across his face. “Uh, are you saying you’d rather stay independent?”
Scarletella nodded firmly. “Me… no cook for others. Only… cook for… them.”
Your heart skipped a beat.
“Them?” the host asked, baffled.
Scarletella turned his wide, inhumane eyes toward the camera, toward you. He raised his hands dramatically, as though you could feel his presence even through the screen.
“Me… love. Only them. Cooking for… other humans… is cheat. No cheat. Never.”
A deafening silence followed, broken only by scattered whispers and murmurs from the audience.
You slapped your palm to your forehead, groaning. “Oh, for the love of––.. Scarletella!”
The next day, the headlines were full of Scarletella’s story.
“THE RED MANIAC CHEF WHO REFUSES TO ‘CHEAT’ ON HIS LOVER, THE POWER OF LOVE OR PURE STUPIDITY?”
“SPIRIT SPAGHETTI SENSATION, RESTAURANTS DESPERATE FOR A RECIPE FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE!”
“WEIRD RED HAIRED NOT-SO MAMA MIA CHEF TURNS DOWN A $10 MILLION DEAL, FOR ROMANCE?”
You couldn't escape the coverage. Every channel, every article, every social media platform was abuzz with talk of Scarletella's decision.
Scarletella, however, didn’t seem fazed at all. He walked around the house as if nothing had happened, humming to himself as he clattered around in the kitchen. When you finally confronted him about it, he looked at you with the wide, innocent eyes of someone who truly thought they had done the most logical thing in the world.
“You… mad?” he asked, tilting his head. “Me no… cheat. Love you.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to process everything. “Scarletella, you just turned down life-changing opportunities because you think cooking for someone else is cheating! That’s not… that’s not how it works!”
He glitched closer, his glow pulsing with what you could only describe as sincerity. “Me… no care. Me… make you happy. Me… stay here. No need big restaurant. Only need… you.”
Your heart softened despite yourself. It was impossible to stay mad at him when he looked at you like that, his genuine adoration practically radiating from his very essence.
“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, shaking your head with a small smile. “But... thanks, I guess. I don’t need some fancy ghost chef. I just need you, too.”
Scarletella beamed, his glow intensifying as he teleported back toward the kitchen. “Me… make dinner! Better this time!”
....
You sighed, dropping onto the couch. “Oh boy. Here we go again…”
As the smell of something slightly charred wafted through the air, you couldn’t help but smile. Life with Scarletella was never going to be normal, but maybe that was exactly what you needed.