Taffer Notes: Based on an imagine on Tumblr that claimed him to be a good cook. Which I totally agree with. And which Sadja agrees with too. Prepare for a little bit of domestic Shieldfield.

"I'm starved, Redfield. Feed me." Sadja swings around the corner into the kitchen, her new phone-thing held up to her eyes, and a thumb busy swiping up and up and up and up— until she gets dizzy from all the pictures flying past. She blinks. Shakes her head.

"Are you ever not?" She looks up, and gets scowled at from behind the kitchen counter. A scowl that's got a whole lot more bark than bite, mind you.

Redfield looks homely today, comfortable. Wears something simple for a simple day. Washed out jeans, a soft, well worn leather belt keeping them up, and an easy fitting moss green shirt that proudly bears his outfit's coat of arms on the curve of his wide shoulder.

"Not when I'm fed, no. What are you doing anyway, and what's that smell. I like that smell." It's sweet and a little spicy. Apple and cinnamon and a hint of vanilla, and it gets her stomach all worked up, because she's not had anything to eat for about two hours and that's just too damn long.

Around the counter she swings, the phone forgotten and dumped on the top, and her feet carry her forward. They're lured by her nose. And by Redfield standing by the stove top, a big knife in his hands. The knife goes chop-chop-chop as he finishes off a pile of mushrooms that never stood a chance. He's all methodical about it, like he's with everything in his life. Moves from left to right, not once slowing down, and every little shroom gets itself shredded.

Veggies beware! The BeeEssAyAy don't muck around.

Sadja maneuvers herself next to the stove, turns around, and hops on the top. In return, she gets a bowl shoved into her hand. She holds onto it, peers inside. Empty, save for a sieve at the bottom.

The shrooms tumble into a pan. They sizzle and pop and he flicks the heavy cast iron thing with the same ease that he'd socked a gnarly monstrosity with once. DAAAANG, the pan had said. CRACK, the skull had replied. It'd been droll. Sadja smirks.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothin-"

He grunts, and the pan comes her way. For a moment there she thinks maybe he'll sweep her off the counter, but instead he pours the mushrooms into the bowl. When she reached out to pick one of them out and pop it into her mouth, he glares at her. Her fingers wiggle. The glare sets. And she pulls her hand back out. Empty.

Next he throws green stuff into the pan. While the greens hiss and spit, he grinds spices into them, and Sadja can't help leaning slightly to the right and watch his arms go as he twists the small salt and pepper mills and whatnot. HmmHmmmHmm.

He pauses, arms still high, and glances at her. His right brow rocks up slightly.

"Carry on," Sadja says. And he carries on, gives the greenery a stir, and when it's all wilted, he adds that to the mushrooms in her lap.

Then he fetches a white tub from the fridge, carries it over to her, and sets it on her head. Literally. Sadja holds very still, her eyes on him and his on her.

"What?" It's her turn to ask.

"Just trying to figure out how long I can get you to sit still."

She scoffs, tips her head forward, and catches the tub.

"Open it up," he says and drops a big wooden spoon into the bowl. "Stir half of it in."

"Mh."

His finger flicks at her nose. "What was that?"

"Yessir."

So she opens up the tub and does as told, while he busies himself with a large chunk of meat that's still got a big bone in its middle and the skin attached to it. She watches as he goes about getting the bone out, and how he doesn't pause once while his fingers work. And all the while she stirs and stirs and stirs, until she grows bored of that and starts sticking her finger into the tub of white, cheesy goo. Mascarpone, the label reads. Whatever the Hell that is. Tastes nice though, she thinks, scoops out some more, and sucks it off her finger, 'cause damn she's hungry. Her finger still stuck in her mouth, she looks up, and Redfield stands there in front of her, blocking out the rest of the world. Pretty much, anyway. All chest and shoulders and the smell of rainy days mixed into the kitchen's spicy, sweet scents.

He's staring. So she stares back, lips curling slightly around her finger, and her toes tapping at his shin. He crowds her a little. Dips his head to level his nose with hers. She tilts to the left little, and he tilts with her. Comes closer still— closer— until their noses bump. Briefly. A fleeting, tender touch. Her lashes catch on him. His breath puffs against her cheek, whisper against her collarbone— and then Redfield steals the bowl. And the tub.

"Spoilsport," she mutters while he carries both off, delight trailing him that tastes both sweet and just a little dangerous.

Since she's now without a bowl and without much purpose, and Redfield begins stuffing the slab of meat with what she'd stirred together, Sadja hops off the counter and wanders through the kitchen. Trails that smell she'd caught before. All the way to the oven.

Bending forward at the hip, she stares at the dark glass and the thing behind it. Yep. Definitely apple. And for a while she just stand there and looks at the flat thing in there. It's white, turning a little brown, and it really ought to not smell that nice.

Curious, she grabs on to the handle and is just about to pull the oven open, when she gets herself caught with a hand on each wrist, and an insistent drag back. His arms loop around her, and with a twist of his hip he lifts her away from the oven. Her feet come off the floor, and don't land again until she's spun around once, and of half a mind to forget she'd come in hungry.

Except that thing in there, that's pie. And Sadja fucking loves pie, so there's still half a mind of fight in her…