[12 fics] The Way the Cookie Crumbles
for tammylee! Request, Delicious sugar cookies with icing
The Way the Cookie Crumbles
Lucius has a sweet tooth.
He would never admit it, of course. What self-respecting werewolf has a sweet tooth? But Peter has watched him long enough to notice how he prowls into the kitchen, circling the last cookie in the cookie jar. How he hoards candy bars from Halloween in a shoebox in his closet, snapping at anyone who comes too close.
Peter hasn’t baked since he was a kid, “helping” his foster mother. He remembers ending up covered head-to-toe in flour, and the way she looked ready to scream at him for it, but, biting her lip, kept silent. He remembers never helping her bake again.
But this time there’s no flour-just a paper tube he tears open, and a long lump of dough he cuts with a knife. The package claims sugar cookies, but his nose smells preservatives and food additives that have nothing to do with the snowman-cutout cookies he and his foster mother once made. When he cuts the dough the circular shape squashes into an oval, flattened on one side, the chocolate tree in the middle distorting. Undeterred, Peter cuts on, until he has a dozen slightly elliptical doughy disks.
He lays them out on the cookie sheet, and thinks of Lucius’s face when he sees them.
The oven’s slightly too hot so the bottoms carmelize. Not quite burned-Peter’s nose is too sharp for that-but nearly. He yanks the cookie sheet out with the ends of his sleeves pulled over his fingers, yelping slightly at the fierce heat. The oven door he kicks shut with one foot as he drops the cookie sheet onto the stove. Then to wait for them to cool; he sets the egg timer ticking, sings an off-key tune to its beat.
Down the hall, there’s a low thump. Lucius kicking his locked bedroom door. Peter smiles. Always a critic.
At last the cookies are cool enough and he slathers them with icing from another can. The cookies are still slightly warm and the icing runs, slicking over the side, a gooey, pale mess. Peter swipes a finger through one drip and winces. Too sweet, for his tastes.
The thumping is now accompanied by shouting. “Hush,” Peter says, and then “Quiet!” in a sharp bark when Lucius keeps going. Lucius goes quiet. Peter turns on the television and inhales. The whole place smells delicious, baking cookies, sugar, and the faint sourness of Lucius’s reluctant submission.
He piles a plate high with cookies once the icing is cool. They look good, he thinks, if you like cookies.
Peter takes the silver key from around his neck and unlocks Lucius’s door. Holds out the plateful of cookies. Meets Lucius’s eye, holding that yellow gaze.
“Have one,” he says, cheerfully.
Watches as Lucius takes. Eats. The crumbs fall and dust the front of Lucius’s crisp black shirt.
“Good?” he asks, still cheerfully.
Lucius only narrows his eyes. Peter sighs. It’s so hard to make him happy. He sets the plate down just inside the doorway. “Merry Christmas.”
Lucius growls, deep in the back of his throat.
Peter shuts the door, locking it behind himself, and whistles as he cleans the kitchen.
The Way the Cookie Crumbles
Lucius has a sweet tooth.
He would never admit it, of course. What self-respecting werewolf has a sweet tooth? But Peter has watched him long enough to notice how he prowls into the kitchen, circling the last cookie in the cookie jar. How he hoards candy bars from Halloween in a shoebox in his closet, snapping at anyone who comes too close.
Peter hasn’t baked since he was a kid, “helping” his foster mother. He remembers ending up covered head-to-toe in flour, and the way she looked ready to scream at him for it, but, biting her lip, kept silent. He remembers never helping her bake again.
But this time there’s no flour-just a paper tube he tears open, and a long lump of dough he cuts with a knife. The package claims sugar cookies, but his nose smells preservatives and food additives that have nothing to do with the snowman-cutout cookies he and his foster mother once made. When he cuts the dough the circular shape squashes into an oval, flattened on one side, the chocolate tree in the middle distorting. Undeterred, Peter cuts on, until he has a dozen slightly elliptical doughy disks.
He lays them out on the cookie sheet, and thinks of Lucius’s face when he sees them.
The oven’s slightly too hot so the bottoms carmelize. Not quite burned-Peter’s nose is too sharp for that-but nearly. He yanks the cookie sheet out with the ends of his sleeves pulled over his fingers, yelping slightly at the fierce heat. The oven door he kicks shut with one foot as he drops the cookie sheet onto the stove. Then to wait for them to cool; he sets the egg timer ticking, sings an off-key tune to its beat.
Down the hall, there’s a low thump. Lucius kicking his locked bedroom door. Peter smiles. Always a critic.
At last the cookies are cool enough and he slathers them with icing from another can. The cookies are still slightly warm and the icing runs, slicking over the side, a gooey, pale mess. Peter swipes a finger through one drip and winces. Too sweet, for his tastes.
The thumping is now accompanied by shouting. “Hush,” Peter says, and then “Quiet!” in a sharp bark when Lucius keeps going. Lucius goes quiet. Peter turns on the television and inhales. The whole place smells delicious, baking cookies, sugar, and the faint sourness of Lucius’s reluctant submission.
He piles a plate high with cookies once the icing is cool. They look good, he thinks, if you like cookies.
Peter takes the silver key from around his neck and unlocks Lucius’s door. Holds out the plateful of cookies. Meets Lucius’s eye, holding that yellow gaze.
“Have one,” he says, cheerfully.
Watches as Lucius takes. Eats. The crumbs fall and dust the front of Lucius’s crisp black shirt.
“Good?” he asks, still cheerfully.
Lucius only narrows his eyes. Peter sighs. It’s so hard to make him happy. He sets the plate down just inside the doorway. “Merry Christmas.”
Lucius growls, deep in the back of his throat.
Peter shuts the door, locking it behind himself, and whistles as he cleans the kitchen.