hetalia_kink

Original request here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20026.html?thread=75552826#t75552826

Prompt:
Francis begins his new job as a chef in a big mansion in England. He never met the master of the house, like many of the other servants. Rumor is that the master doesn’t like people and finds more pleasure in his work as an author and spends the whole day just locked up in his room and library.

One day Francis finds a stranger in the kitchen, stealing some of his freshly made food. He assumes it’s a new servant and proceeds to tell him off and give him tasks. He doesn’t know it’s actually Arthur Kirkland, his boss. For some reason, Arthur gives him a false name and continues playing his own servant, finding more and more fun in the game. It’s not so easy though, because not all the servants don’t know his identity.

How/when/if Francis finds out and what happens afterwards is all up to the anon! :D

Bonus: At one point, Francis gives Arthur a blowjob on the master’s bed, getting all
excited about the risk of the boss coming in any time.

Bonus 2: When Francis insults Arthur’s food, he gets a letter from his boss the next day, which tells him that the absolutely not-burned scones were absolutely delicious and should win an award.

Bonus 3: It’s Arthur’s job to deliver food to… himself (because he’s not allowed to cook anymore). Somewhen Francis notices he’s not coming out of the room as soon as he delivered the food. Instead of assuming the right, he becomes jealous of the master – thinking he and Arthur are having an affair.

Not the questioning anon from above.

Léa=Monaco, Marie=Belgium.


„Master Kirkland?“

The third knock went unanswered, a signal for Tino to push the door handle without permission.

The room was full of cigarette smoke, dim, and only with a flickering computer screen as a source of light. The lone figure slumped at the desk moved at the sound of his voice and blinked sleepily.

“Really now, master Kirkland. What would your father say.” Tino walked straight to the windows, dragging a garbage bag behind him. He rightly expected he would need it.

“I don't give a damn what...” the sentence was lost as master Arthur Kirkland – the young man slouched lifelessly at the table – groaned and hid his face behind his crossed arms as light flooded the room.

“Now, don't act like I would stab you, master Kirkland. I'm merely opening the windows, it's a miracle you haven't suffocated yet.” Tino propped the window with a chair so that it wouldn't close on it's own and started to pick up randomly discarded items from the floor, throwing most of them into the bag.

“You are my housekeeper, not my mother.” Arthur grumbled but obediently lifted his legs from the ground so that Tino could pick the crumpled papers scattered under his desk.”And cigarettes help to boost my creativity.”

Tino emptied the two overfilled ashtrays. “And, did you make any progress?”

Arthur turned around in his swivel chair, facing away from the table.

Tino sighed. “I will send Léa to bring you fresh sheets. Anything else you need?”

“I can't find him.” Arthur grumbles in response.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The villain. I have the whole story planned out, you see? The plot, characters, everything. But I can't model the main villain, the nemesis for my hero. Everything I come up with feels flat, unrealistic and clichéd.”

Tino smiled, mentally stopping the urge to pat his young master's shoulder. He was as close as a member of the staff could be, starting his job as gardener's helper short before master Arthur was born, and working for him for the whole twenty-three years of his existence, but the don't-touch rule was valid for him too. “I'm sure you will think of something.” was all he could offer.

Taking the garbage bag with him, he headed for the door but stopped halfway, turning around once again. “Actually, I came here to tell you that Marie is definitely leaving...”

“She can't do that, who will make my morning waffles!” Arthur's eyes were wide with despair as he looked back at Tino.

“No need to worry, master Kirkland, she already found a replacement for her. The man has excellent references as a cook, although he never worked for a private household.”

Arthur snorted. “A man? We never had a male chef cook.”

“I'm sure you won't even notice the difference.” Tino said, walking out of the room. “And I'm also sure Mr. Bonnefoy will make waffles according to your taste.”


A/N
A little teaser to make me finally start writing.

I hope the OP doesn't mind that I chose the names for side characters. Creative as I am, I simply found a wikipedia list with most common names in each country and picked the ones I liked best.

I plan to introduce other Hetalia characters, any pairings you particularly dislike or other things I should avoid?

kl;djfklsdjg omg. This looks so promising. I can't wait for more, A!A. Hopefully 'more' will come up soon, yes?

Oh God, this is so much win already! I have a feeling that I will love every single character you introduce in this story! Because I already love Tino and Arthur! ♥

And don't worry, I love absolutely everything about hetalia, so nothing you should avoid. You're free to do anything you like! xD The names are great, too! And the more characters, the better! I really love ensembles! ♥

So yeah, the beginning is already amazing! I can't wait to read more!

♥

^_^ I'm already excited *sits and waits patiently for more*

*sets up camp* Interesting start, a!anon! Definitely waiting for moar!

Amazing start!

This is an excellent start! I can't wait to see where you go with it :D

I'm already liking this so much!!

*F5-ing to the max*

I'm already loving it *-* *set up camp too and start a barbecue while waiting*
Please, please, please, please kind Author Anon continue and continue soon i-i

Thanks for the comments, everybody, I really hope I won't disappoint with this story.

Special thanks to the OP, the prompt is fantastic.


It was probably due to his work as a cook, or maybe an inborn treat; but Francis Bonnefoy got used to see the world more through his taste and smell than through other senses.

Mondays tasted like fish fillets because that was the day the hotel he worked for got the largest delivery from the market. Fridays were fruity with Châteauneuf-du-Pape that he loved to enjoy after a stressful week.

His apartment, the one he moved into only two months ago, still smelled of carpet glue and the plastic sheets they packed furniture into nowadays. He knew it would take at least a year until it would smell like home.

People had their very special fragrances, too. His boss in the hotel smelled like the inside of an overstuffed fridge, a not very pleasant mixture of pickles, mustard and surimi sticks. His ex used to leave a mixture of Givenchy perfume and dog granules in his flat whenever she visited.

His friend Antonio always brought with him the smell of fresh herbs, basil and thyme, dill and lovage. This mixture was also what Francis imagined first as he, tired and annoyed after a long evening shift, found six unanswered calls from said friend.

Quite the surprise, the calls; since Antonio took the job of a gardener in a large mansion in Britain, he rarely used the phone, relying on emails instead. If he opted for an international call, it was surely not because his aubergines grew extraordinary large, like he surely would was he still living in France.

Francis dealt the number on his way to the car, and instead of a greeting, got his friend's excited shout: “She said yes, she said yes Francis!”

Francis smiled; he dearly missed the optimistic voice that could talk with enthusiasm even about different sorts of pesticides.

“Who said yes?”

“The love of my life said yes! Marie, Marie, my lovely Marie, can you imagine, I'm so happy...”

Marie - vanilla and yeast, nice nose, narrow shoulders, chef cook; Francis' mind provided as he remembered the girl Antonio was writing about in every second email since he started working in the estate. He met her on a single occasion as he visited Britain, but back then she was merely Antonio's secret obsession.

“Was about time you asked. I hope I'm invited to the wedding.”

“Of course you are, Francis, you'll come to Spain because I'm finally returning home with my beautiful bride and everything will...”

A muffled female voice cut in from somewhere in the background. “Sweetie, wasn't there something we wanted to discuss with Francis?”

“Right!” Antonio sounded suddenly serious, then the line got quiet with only some shuffling noises and finally the female voice came through as Marie took over the phone.

“Francis? I can call you Francis, right?”

“Of course my dear.”

“Well, Francis, I heard you are an excellent cook...”

Francis laughed, modesty was never his strong point.

“What would you say if I'd offer you the place of a chef cook in a private estate?”

“I see, you need a replacement for you.” Francis' mind started working, imaging himself in a large rustic kitchen with pots hanging on the cream-coloured walls, smelling faintly of smoke from the fireplace.

“I can assure you, you will love the work. It's basically cooking for only one master and very few employees, being your own boss with your own staff that will listen to your orders, and an almost unlimited budget.”

“I see.” Selecting own menus. Gardener bringing him fresh onions and carrots every morning.

“Plus, a more then nice salary.”

No more obnoxious tourists that demanded “frogs” although they didn't have it on the menu because, apparently, there was nothing more to French cuisine than frog legs.

The smell of English rain; maybe he will like it.

“When can I start?”

Marie laughed, a faint slapping noise was audible in the background. Looks like Antonio finally found somebody who liked to high-five with him.

“In two weeks.”

Admittedly, it was a bit strange to decide leaving your (rather good) job in five minutes in underground garages, but Francis always adored spontaneity. And now, three weeks since he started in the new place, he could honestly say he didn't regret his decision.

Of course, there were flaws and not everything he imagined and expected got fulfilled. The kitchen he worked in was truly gigantic, as was the whole estate, completely with over hundred rooms, a pond and more land around it that was possible to walk in one day. But the stove was probably as ancient as the thick walls of the building, and it took Francis a whole week to get used to the peculiar lighting system. Not to speak he had to watch every meal like a hawk because the thing had the bad habit of burning food to ash on whim whenever it pleased.

His own room was dream-like, with a four-poster bed and lush carpet in the deepest hues of burgundy but thankfully, some sensible soul provided it with Ikea mattresses and energy-saving light-bulbs. There was a faint mould smell every time he entered, but it got lost in the smoke from the fireplace and a somehow mellow, lulling smell he couldn't quite place. He definitely liked it, except for the huge ornate wardrobe that was full of camphor.

Just like Marie promised, the work was easy and surprisingly pleasant. The food that was delivered to the kitchen was first quality and Francis couldn't get enough of the taste of fresh fruit and vegetables from the garden, never touched by chemicals and ripe with accumulated sunbeams.

Although he loved to experiment, Francis figured it would be best to stick to the usual patterns for at least the first few weeks, and Marie got him a complete list of menus she used to put together. He soon found out that his employer didn't like varied tastes, as the lists mainly consisted of meat with either potatoes or very basic vegetable selection. He however seemed to have a fondness for biscuits as the recipes contained at least twenty variations for them, and also he favoured rather hearty breakfasts.

The first meal was followed by lunch, tea and dinner, a welcomed routine that allowed Francis quite a lot of free time. Meals had to be prepared at exact hours although there was never a collective moment when everybody would sit down and eat together. The staff of the mansion ate whenever they felt like making a pause, asking for their portion from the little kitchen window that lead to the dining room. And the master of the house got the food delivered directly to his quarters.

Francis was forewarned from both Marie and Antonio, that he shouldn't bother with the fact that he will never see his employer and master of the estate. Both used to be very curious as they got hired, they admitted, but they understood after a year or so that it was useless, since the man literally never left his room, or at least not when anybody was around.

That, of course, couldn't stop Francis' own curiosity. It's been three weeks and he still wasn't even sure how old the master was. His information was limited to the name – Arthur Kirkland. Of course Francis tried, systematically and inconspicuously asking other staff members about the mysterious man, but still without much luck.

The person who seemed to know the most about the house and was definitely in direct contact with it's master was the housekeeper, whose name had too many dots above vowels to remember. He was the one who hired Francis and who showed him the estate and explained the basic customs. A remarkably active man that seemed to be everywhere at the same time, watching with practised care everything that went on in the household. Although he seemed to be perpetually busy, he never missed the opportunity to chat for a moment with his employees and ask them about their well-beings. Compared to his previous chef – and compared to most other options – this was the best boss Francis could hope for.

Francis couldn't quite categorize the housekeeper's smell – it was a spicy mixture of anise and fennel, and then something metallic, maybe coming from the large ring of ancient keys the housekeeper wore on his belt.

The day Francis was hired they walked together through the house and finally sat at the dining room table, where the housekeeper asked him if he had any additional questions. Determined to use the opportunity, Francis said nonchalantly: “Looks like the master of the house likes to keep his estate in perfect order.”

“Oh no, not at all.” the housekeeper laughed. His voice was rather high-pitched for a man, but still not too girly. “It's not like master Kirkland really keeps an eye on his property, to say the truth we rarely even discuss matters. Most of the things here haven't changed in ages – how it worked fifty years ago is how it works now.”

Hm, a not very responsible person. Or just simply lazy, Francis thought.

“I really do hope you won't find this place too old-fashioned or boring.” the housekeeper continued.

“No, not at all. After living in big cities for the better part of my life, I feel like I really need a bit of country life.”

A pleasant silence followed, both were drinking the coffee Francis' assistant prepared for them.

“Any other questions?”

“Well....” Francis tried not to sound too curious. “Can I expect larger companies? Parties or other social events?”

“Not really. You see, master Kirkland has a closed selection of friends but he prefers to go out to meet them. Occasionally, you may be asked to prepare tea for a small company of, say, four people, but that is the maximum of quests you will encounter here.”

“I hope this won't sound rude, but it looks like the master is leading a rather secluded lifestyle.” Francis tried his luck.

“Yes,” the housekeeper laughed again, louder, as if he was enjoying an insider joke Francis didn't get. “Indeed he is.”

That was all Francis got from the housekeeper, and the image of an old, bored man with a huge beard (preferably even with a monocle), barely able to leave his room without a wheelchair begun to creep into his mind.

That theory was partly confirmed as he once run into Léa, the head maid and the only person apart from the housekeeper who had the access to master Kirkland's private rooms. She was clearly on the way to those quarters, since the entire first floor in the western wing was the no-go zone for all other employees. The pile of laundry in her arms was too high and she failed to notice Francis on the staircase and nearly fell down; that was when he could see the clothing articles. Corduroy trousers, woollen socks and even suspenders, definitely matching the image of a grandpa, thin and almost lost in a giant comfy chair.

As he bent down to help her with the lost items, she looked at him from behind the rim of her glasses with a stare that made him regret all the carnal sins he never committed, and picked the items herself. She would be very pretty were she not scowling; the smell of starch nearly completely covered her perfume. Dior's J'adore, if Francis remembered correctly.

“We never got introduced properly,” Francis was never one to be discouraged easily, “I believe you are the head maid?”

“Yes I am. Would you be so kind as to let me through...”

Francis gave up and stepped to the side, watching her ascend the stairs and disappear in the western wing. She won't be much of a help with the information either, he concluded.

Sadly, those two seemed to be the only persons who were allowed in master Kirkland's vicinity. Apart from Léa, there were two other maids taking care of the large house, who both lived in the estate. Francis managed to befriend one of them, Mei, a cheerful girl of unknown Asian origin whose exotic pomegranate perfume mixed with the detergent and hardwood polish her apron smelled of. She was quite chatty and loved to talk about her large family, working in various parts of Britain, but she was just as clueless when it came to master Kirkland riddle as Francis.

The other maid was somewhere from Eastern Europe, judging from her accent. Francis found out after two weeks when he finally heard her talk – she said a quiet thank you as she finished her dinner. Mei assured him she was actually a very nice girl who loved hot cocoa and could sing beautiful sad folk songs, and he believed her. But according to Mei, she too had no idea when it came to the identity of their employer as herself. Francis never stood near enough to her to categorize her smell, but her melancholic aura and flaxen hair looked like that of a tragic heroine from the early twentieth century; he liked to imagine her with a subtle whiff of Narcisse Noir.

Which left only three other members of the staff that lived in the manor; the butler, the chauffeur and the cook's assistant. The gardener, a position formerly held by Antonio, was still unoccupied, and the housekeeper once complained to Francis how hard it was to find a competent person for such a job lately.

The butler was actually the first person Francis met as he arrived, since it was him who opened the large entrance door. As he saw the tall figure with the deathglare, he couldn't suppress the shiver that came with a sudden déja-vu from a macabre black and white tv series from his childhood. The housekeeper once explained to Francis that the butler was there just as long as he himself, more than twenty years, and that he was a very charming person, once you persuaded him to actually say something. He used a rather masculine cologne with pine elements, that Francis could smell even from the distance he usually held from the man.

Nobody really understood why there was a chauffeur in the first place, since nobody could remember seeing Master Kirkland leave the estate in one of the cars deposited in the large garage. However the young man whom everybody called Vargas was obviously very happy with his job. Francis didn't have an opportunity to talk to him in the three weeks, but he saw him from time to time from his kitchen window, as he strolled through the garden and stole random vegetables. He once heard him arguing with a stranger that tried to get into the house, obviously trying to sell something, and found out Vargas had a vocabulary of an Elizabethan pirate, and of a particularly malicious one.

And then there was the last staff member, and the only reason for Francis to complain or nurse an acute headache; his assistant Heracles. The tall man born under the Mediterranean sun somewhere on Corfu smelled of sand and olive trees even though he was living in the rainy British climate for seven years now. And it wasn't as if the man was a bad cook, quite the opposite, he had a great sense for combinations and could make brilliant salads. But he was impossibly, chronically and incurably slow.

Francis first thought he was just having a bad day, as he told him to cut onions for the sauce and then watched, horrified, how Heracles managed to stretch this simple task to a twenty minute long performance, never mind there were another three onions that were waiting for a similar procedure. But when he saw him grating the cheese or peel potatoes with the speed of a tired turtle day after day for three weeks, he finally understood that this was indeed the man's nature.

That was when he decided it's time to talk to the housekeeper. He didn't want to let the poor men be fired, but maybe he could persuade his employer to hire another cook assistant.


A/N:

I tried to research great houses and their usual staff but I had to change some things for the sake of the story. Please let me know if I made a mistake somewhere.

Both anise and fennel are used to imitate the taste of licorice. I don't have a clever explanation for why Francis doesn't recognize licorice smell.

Mei is Taiwan.

Narcisse Noir is a perfume first produced in 1911 that “was made to be worn by broken down old ballerinas” Stumbled upon it by chance here http://www.vintageseekers.com/perspective/the-scent-of-the-20s

I'm very sorry for the Sweden - Lurch joke, but that was the first idea that came to my mind as I started to plan a great house scenario. I don't know if the Adams family is famous in other parts of the world, but it was quite the hit as I was a child in my country.

I seriously love the atmosphere in this story and your characterization of Francis.

btw do you think you can tell us who the other staff members are suppose to be or if they're just oc human? Taiwan and Sweden I got, but who is Lea and Maria? I think the housekeeper is Denmark?

Oh and I guess we're going to meet Arthur next. Awesome.

I love the atmosphere you've created here! Everyone just seems so interesting and intriguing; I can't wait to see where everything else goes. I also found Francis' wanting to categorize everyone based on their scents strangely endearing. I wonder what he'll think about Arthur :D

Oooooh, I'm so excited right now!

God, I love your writing style! It's so fluent and beautiful, especially with all the descriptions of the smells (which fits Francis really well!). And I love all your characterizations, as I already mentioned in my first comment! ♥

Lovino's introduction was my favourite xD I first thought it was North Italy and was like "who would hire him as a chauffeur, no wonder Arthur never leaves the house! xD", but then you mentioned his Elizabethan pirate vocabulary and that just cracked me up!

Francis is so funny how he tries not to be rude but can't hide his curiosity. And for some reason I really like Léa. Also, Spain/Belgium = cuu~ute! I've actually never read anything with that pairing before and now I feel the need to change that!

Also, Sweden as the butler is so fucking perfect... I don't even... xD I've never really seen Adams family, unfortunately, but I can totally imagine a Sweden-butler fitting in a show like this xD

And now I'm really excited about the FrUK-meeting! ~

♥, OP

Love it *-* the house and the staff makes me remember of the old movies about mansions and big balls and romance and ...
*starts a long list*
Anyways, the ambient remembers me of tha movie 'Sabrina' with Harison Ford (I really don't know why xD but doesn't matter: I love the movie and I'm loving your fic anyway xD)
Please! Moar! *-*

Oh my God this is so perfect perfect perfect! It's probably gonna be my new favourite FrUK-fic! Already loved the prompt, but man! This fill is so much more than I ever hoped for. It's perfect How you describe the house and the characters and that whole atmosphere... I can't get enough of this. And I can't wait until Francis meets Arthur! ♥

You are seriously awesome, a!a.

Just in case, dramatis personae until now: housekeeper = Finland, butler = Sweden, head maid = Monaco (Léa), maids = Taiwan (Mei) and Belarus, cook assistant = Greece, Chauffeur = Romano.

All my love goes to you, kind commenting anons (and all the others who enjoy this fill)

-

Determined to bring up the topic of his assistant on the next occasion he would speak with the housekeeper, Francis endured two more days of watching Heracles moving around the kitchen like a somnambulist. On the third day, the housekeeper's cheerful face finally appeared in the dining room as he came to eat lunch there, instead of his own quarters where one of the maids usually brought the food for him.

“Mr. Bonnefoy! Everything fine? Aren't you bored yet?” the housekeeper asked, ever-present smile on his face.

“Everything splendid.” Francis answered, handling him the lemon sherbet with strawberries. Making sure Heracles was engrossed in his apple-slicing, he leaned to the housekeeper, keeping his voice low. “There is a matter I would like to discuss with you, could I speak with you in private for a moment?”

“Of course, whatever you need.” the housekeeper proceeded to the further end of the dining room, next to the large French window facing the southern part of the park. Francis followed.

“Well, Mr. Bonnefoy? I hope you don't have bad news for me.”

“No, not really.” Francis looked with satisfaction as the housekeeper dived into the lemon sherbet, obviously enjoying it. “I wanted to talk about the support staff.”

“Oh you mean the gardener? I'm sure he'll get used to this in no time.”

“The gardener?”

“Why yes, you are not talking about him?” the housekeeper laid down his spoon, brows furrowed in thinking. “Oh yes, you weren't introduced.”

He looked out of the window and motioned for Francis to do the same. “You should be able to see him.... there he is. Mr. Honda.” He pointed to a tiny silhouette walking around the lion fountain. “He started yesterday, on a recommendation from miss Mei, he's her relative. He has excellent education as a garden designer and agreed to try out living here in England to be closer to his family. I thought you were talking about him”

“No, I didn't know we had a new gardener.”

“Oh well, it's not a custom here to separately introduce new members of the staff, I hope you won't mind.”

Francis shook his head. “Not at all.”

“I'm sure you will meet soon enough. For now, we are coping a bit with the language barriers as he doesn't seem to speak English that wall. That and I'm personally worried about his ability...” the housekeeper seemed to realize this was not the part of information meant to discuss with the chef cook, and asked instead: “But back to your original question, what was it you wanted to talk with me about?”

Francis cleared his throat, careful to voice the problem with needed decency. “My assistant, Mr. Karpussi, he is certainly a very hard-working young man, however...”

“He's too slow, isn't he.” the housekeeper looked unimpressed, tired even. “We talked about this with the former chef numerous times, and I must say she was very understanding to the whole problem.” he looked at Francis as if weighing how much he could be involved in the matter. “You see, I'm aware Mr. Karpussi isn't exactly the most....suitable helper, but it is not in my competence to replace him.”

“I see.” Francis nodded.

The housekeeper was quiet, look fixed on the fountain and the figure next to it. Francis looked in the same direction and saw the gardener's small frame - he was short even for an Asian man – desperately trying to catch the blooming wisteria branches crawling on a pergola. They were completely out of his reach.

“Unless...” the housekeeper's face brightened up. “unless we'd make him the helper for the gardener. To say the truth I was a bit worried how he would manage the more physically affording parts of his work, but this could solve the problem.” He turned back to smile at Francis. “And we'll find you a new helper.”

“That... that would be perfect.” Francis barely restrained himself from shouting success in front of the housekeeper, although he felt a bit sorry for the gardener. Then again, maybe Heracles just disliked the kitchen. Maybe he would be great in other jobs.

“That's settled, then.” the housekeeper looked very pleased with himself. “I will let you know about the progress of the matter. And now excuse me please.”

“Of course. Thank you for the consideration.” Francis collected the dishes, normally the job for Heracles but he didn't even notice in his excitement. Now the only thing left was to hope the new assistant wouldn't be more useless than his current one.

Francis honestly doubted that could be possible.


On the next morning, Francis was surprised to find a little card lying next to the sink as he entered the kitchen. The unnecessarily formal handwriting of the housekeeper read:

To Mr. Bonnefoy:

Your new assistant will join our staff during this week in the kitchen premisses. From this day on, Mr. Karpussi is officially the new helper of Mr. Honda.

Väinämöinen

The joy of this promising turn of events lasted half a day; around lunch he realized, that no matter how slow of a helper Heracles was, he was still the second pair of hands that were necessary for the cooking process to run smoothly. After the dinner was finished, Francis was tired like he remembered being after weddings he used to help with in his former job, and sincerely wished his new assistant wouldn't need a whole week to join the staff.

Francis woke up with a headache the next day, and the empty kitchen he walked into didn't seem half as encouraging as it did on the previous morning. The day continued to be a disaster, with shortbread dough that got too stiff in the fridge overnight and refused to be rolled properly, and the blueberries that got spoiled since he forgot them on the counter. The last straw came in the form of a bundle of herbs he got delivered from the garden. Together with his own note “Thyme, thank you.” that he wrote for the gardener the day before was a freshly plucked bunch of oregano.

Quietly muttering curses about abominations and ignorance, he stomped through the backdoor to the garden, not even bothering to take the apron off.

Not very quiet voices soon led him to a little orchard not far away from the main house. Francis would find the scene hilarious on any other occasion; the housekeeper and Mei were both talking at the same time, voices raised in a polite form of an argument. The new gardener stood nearby, hands raised in a mute attempt to stop them, and Heracles was squatting on the path next to them, seemingly fascinated by the little crocus heads peeking from the wet earth.

Francis stood next to the gardener, noting that the man was really as short as he looked like from his window (he smelled of pine and fish), and the man turned to him, sparing him a brief cordial smile.

The housekeeper finally noticed Francis watching them, and momentarily stopping his speech (“but why does he need pebbles? We have enough pebbled paths here!”) turned to address him.

“Mr. Bonnefoy, do you wish to discuss something? You must excuse me, as you can see we are in the process of solving some language problems here, miss Mei is being very helpful and translates some of my questions. Could it wait a few hours?”

Sighing, Francis understood that his oregano problem probably wasn't the most important thing for the housekeeper to solve at the moment. Heading south where the little herb garden was, he went to find the thyme himself, as he did in the past three weeks.

The walk did him good to clear his head and as he on his way back saw the still arguing group, he even smiled in amusement – until something in the opened window of the house caught his eye.

Someone was in the kitchen.

Francis walked closer, stealthily without realizing it, to get a better view through the backdoor. An unknown man stood there with this back to him in a formless khaki sweater, next to his work-desk and eating the shortbread straight from the tray.

Unsure whether there was a possibility of a thief on such a large and surely well protected estate, Francis briefly considered going back to fetch the housekeeper, but then the note from yesterday, fastened with a magnet on the fridge door caught his eye and suddenly it all clicked. Housekeeper, busy as he right now was with solving his pebbles problem, probably just sent his new assistant straight to his workplace.

Which still didn't explain why he was eating the shortbread.

Feeling considerably more confident, Francis leaned on the doorframe – the man must be quite hungry, that was the fourth piece he ate before Francis' eyes – and said in his sweetest voice:

“Enjoying yourself?”

The man nearly choked on the shortbread and he whirled around, trying to give him a glare all the while coughing crumbs from his windpipe. He couldn't be older than Francis himself, blond hair like a bird's nest making him look like a shabby university student. And the weak cigarette smell that filled the whole kitchen must be coming from him too, Francis realized. Probably from that terrible sweater.

“Now, I'm glad you like the results of my work, but let me introduce to the rule number one here.” Francis smiled into the angry face . “No eating unless I allow it, is it clear?”

Not waiting for an answer, Francis walked to the sink, depositing the fresh herbs on a plate. The coughing sound ceased and so he saw it fit to say casually: “Bring me the turnip.”

“The what?” His voice was still hoarse from the coughing, but clearly very British.

“Turnip. On the table, in a basket.”

“You mean the pinkish things?”

Francis turned around, hands on his hips. “You don't mean to tell me you as a kitchen assistant don't know how a turnip looks like. Where did you work until now anyway?”

“Uh...” the man turned around, reaching for the basket. “Around. In various...establishments.”

“Around.” Francis repeated, eyebrows raised. “And what's your name?”

The man looked at him surprised, as if processing what he was asked. “It's... Henry.”

“Fine, Henry. I'm Francis, but it's Chef for you. Now peel and dice the turnip and put the water on the stove for the potatoes while you are at it.”

Francis sighed and mentally prepared himself for the worst.



Nine hours later, he had to admit his imagination failed him; the worst that he prepared himself for was still laughably petty stuff compared to the reality. Or how much of a catastrophe his new helper was.

He started with cutting off a piece of his nail as he was peeling a turnip, because he did it with a knife and not with a vegetable peeler like any normal person would do. He proceeded with removing the layers on an onion until something of the size of a raspberry was left, then cut the carrots in the most uneven shapes Francis ever saw in his long culinary career. All the while dropping things, generally being a nuisance, and filling the kitchen with the terrible smoke that killed all natural food smells, because he left for a “short cigarette break” at least once in an hour.

The most tragic fate met the potatoes. Francis asked Henry to turn off the heat once they boiled, but he did it without pouring the hot water from the pot. In the general stress that hovered over the kitchen that day, Francis found them after two hours – or better, the yellowish gruel the poor potatoes transformed into. That was when his nerves finally snapped and he yelled at his assistant: “You are the most useless person that ever crossed a kitchen threshold!”

Henry had the nerve to look offended. “What's your problem? This is a perfectly normal pot of mashed potatoes, I don't care it's not according to your oh-so-refined French tastes!” he yelled back and took a ladle, ostentatiously mixing the contents of the pot.

“How dare you insulting the French cuisine! You have no idea how much I suffer when I have to take perfectly good piece of beef and turn it into your tasteless British....” At that moment, Henry lost the hold on the ladle and the utensil dived with quiet bubbling noises into the potato gruel, disappearing completely from the view.

Francis watched in utter awe for a few seconds and then the tiredness and complete absurdity of the day, that he wanted a new assistant and got this, got him and he started to laugh.

The sound echoed under the high ceiling of the large kitchen, breaking the tense atmosphere and Francis grabbed a chair and slumped into it, unable to stop the laughing. It was even worse when he managed to open his eyes, wiping tears with the back of his hand, and saw Henry, still sulkily standing before him next to the pot, hands crossed on his chest.

“How do you do this, I never saw anybody make so much mess in the kitchen in a month, not in one day!” Francis was now barely breathing.

The corners of Henry's mouth finally turned upwards. “Call it my special talent.”

He grabbed another chair and sat down, while Francis at last caught his breath. “Look,” he said, still panting, “I know for a fact that you have definitely never worked in a kitchen. So how come you applied for this job?”

Henry was already busy eating some raisins that were left on the bottom of a bowl he found on the table. “Needed money.”

“I see.” Francis didn't have the strength to reproach him any more. “But I still don't get how you persuaded the houskeeper to hire you?”

“You know, the cousin of the friend of my mother's brother leads a small family restaurant in Wales and he wrote a recommendation for me.” He licked the sugar from his fingers. Francis shuddered, the first thing he needs to teach him were basic hygiene rules.

Francis took a deep breath. “Allright, Henry. I can't complain about you right now, as much as I think you would be happier in a different job. For now you are staying here, but we need to make a system for this. With you touching as few food products as possible.”

Henry smiled – it was a grin, really, but it was nice to see something else than a scowl on that face for the first time in the day. “Right, chef.” He stood up and reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarette pack and lighter. “Care for a smoke?”

Francis made a horrified face. “Do you have any idea how many taste buds one of these things kills?” He stood up too. “But I could use a break, and then we'll cope with the mess here.” he said and followed Henry outside into the garden.


A/N:

Traditional Japanese cuisine doesn't use any western herbs and most Japanese are even now rather unsure about their usage. I hope it's enough of an explanation why Kiku would do such a grave mistake.

I know that spoken Chinese and Japanese are as different from each other as Chinese and English so technically Taiwan shouldn't be able to translate for Japan, but for the sake of making the Asians one big family, I will just ignore this.

This is wonderful! Oh "Henry" you terrible terrible kitchen abomination. I literally winced when he licked sugar off his fingers (my inner cooking diva fainted) and not to mention all the cigarettes! I feel utterly sorry for you Francis, for once in your life this is a tragedy you didn't bring on yourself. Please keep writing this, A!anon, I'll be stalking for updates now!

Continuation to past-part fills part 6 - http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=81518818#t81518818