Meraki, Ch. 4-a Caskett season 5 WIP, now complete
Title: Meraki, Ch. 4
WC: ~1900, 5500 total
Summary: "She wants that. The sweetness of settling next to him, words and sounds and satisfaction rolling over them both. The quiet pleasure of feeding him. Of making this her place, too. Their place." A story of indeterminate length about nothing at all. Set some time not too long after "Murder, He Wrote" (5 x 04). Now complete.
He reins it in. His natural inclination to mess with her system. Usually he would, because he has this neat trick and he would have done that differently. Because she probably didn’t realize that he has this cool thing . . . Because he like likes her, and it's fun to rile her up. Usually he'd meddle.
But he's caught up in her way of doing things. In how much care she's taken. Neat edges and precise placement. This color next to that, and napkins that must’ve been high enough up somewhere that he’d forgotten they had them. They’re perfect, though. Color and texture and the tight spiral in the beach-glass rings. He smiles down at them. He turns the neat bundles in his own fingers like they still hold the warmth of her touch.
Everything is perfect, and he has the urge to explore instead. To study this and know her in new ways. He revels in it, puzzling out the finishing touches from the rest of the tableau. He slots things into place with a sense of satisfaction. It's new. A rare pleasure to fall into her like this. Curiously intimate to take up work she's left so nearly finished and adds his own touches here and there.
He gets lost. Fully present, with his mind wide open to sensation rushing to fill him up. Scent and warmth and little things that need doing. He grins to himself as he bustles from place to place, her intentions so clear that it's like her hand at the small of his back and her chin over his shoulder. Fond, bossy words in his ear.
She takes advantage of it. How lost in this he is. She sneaks up on him. She snaps on the music and laughs as he whirls around, the chef's knife clutched to his chest.
She laughs, beautiful and bright and the force of it almost knocks him down. The vision she is. The thin straps at her shoulders and the fall of her dress. The colors. Irregular panes of jewel tones that hold light like stained glass. The blush of her skin.
She's balanced on one foot, slipping on her sandal. He loves her for the eagerness written here. Written everywhere, though she's dressed for company. It's written in the sweep of her hair into a careless, elegant knot and the furrows her fingers left along the way. He loves the irregular wink of combs and hairpins and the fact that shoes are an afterthought because she was eager to be with him.
They come together just inside the kitchen threshold. The long, slow glide of his hand at her hip. Hers at his shoulder and their twined fingers together curled to the center of his chest.
The music is a cheerful staccato. Strange instruments rendering a sunny spring shower in sound. It's something he loves. Something she's just getting to know. It makes the kitchen feel bright and snug. A haven for two as a quite different storm rolls and swells and hammers at the shutters outside.
It's perfect. It's joyous, and he tugs her to him. He sways with her in his arms, building and building with the music until it's a whirling dance around the counter. Until she laughs and crashes into his body. Tips her head back and waits for his kiss.
"I love this," he murmurs. "Thank you. I love this."
She grows quiet. She stills herself. She stills the two of them together as she takes his face in her hands.
"You're welcome," she whispers. "And thank you. I'm glad you like it. I'm so glad."
The meal is perfect. The blend of flavors and the textures she's brought together. The wine that has a story and the way they can't get near enough to one another. The way everything is more-sharper, richer, sweeter, and more fragrant-when she lifts a bite to his lips on her own fork. When he kisses her and flavors mingle on his tongue and hers.
She's shy at first. A little quieter than usual, and he knows she's not sure if he's teasing or not when he's all eager questions and effusive praise. But it really is perfect.
She opens up. She slips her sandals off and her toes dance across the hardwood floor. Her hands splay wide and she gestures with her silverware. With her wine glass tipped toward him and a knowing smile.
She tells him funny stories. How some junior associate of her mother's got stuck babysitting through some comedy of errors and together they learned the crucial difference between heads of garlic and cloves.
"You could smell it on my skin from the front door." She laughs and steals a sip of his wine. She's done with hers and wants the next bottle for dessert. "My dad wanted to open the hydrant in front of the apartment and stand me in the stream until I was fit for human companionship again."
He drops his mouth to her shoulder like he might taste it now. She shivers and teases him a little. She lets one strap slip halfway down her arm and sighs into his hair. She tightens her fingers against his thigh, but she's gone the next moment. A flash of color ducking out the far side of the table and spinning away.
"More bread," she says lightly.
She snaps at his hand with a deep red towel and darts to the counter to fill a basket and bring back another dish. She slides back close to him on the bench and lets him coax secrets from her. She lights up, pleased, when he falls into serious shop talk. When he admits her way is clever and he'd never thought to try it.
She nods and says Yes. Next time. I'd like that. when he asks her to show him. To teach him. She smiles like she might believe him when he promises to be good.
He sets her on a stool with her bare feet dangling while he straightens up. He brings her each candle and she purses her lips to blow them out. She gives him a pleased, dazzling smile after the last and his heart hurts. He sees her as a little girl. Jim and Johanna's little Katie, and he has to turn away.
He stoops and busies himself at the side of the island until he thinks his eyes might not shine quite so obviously. He comes up a bottle of wine and waits for her to nod. They've sampled three or four already tonight. Things she's chosen with care. Things that have stories, but this is an old stand-by. Something from a local place they'd found together.
He pours them each a generous glass and tells her stories of his own as he moves from table to sink to refrigerator, sealing and stacking and setting things to rights. He tells her how he learned not to cook by way of his mother's example.
"And then?" Kate sips eagerly. Her eyes are alight over the rim of her glass.
He hesitates. It must look for a minute like he might not answer. Like he's willfully misunderstanding what she's asking, and he thinks she's inclined to roll her eyes. Inclined to assume he's fishing for a compliment. He knows he's a good cook. He reminds her often enough that she's loath to feed his ego on that score. It's a game they play, but now something pulls her up short. He's lost in thought. In memory and a real answer. He sees what she must see. The way he's absently worrying the towel in his hands. The briefest furrow of his brow.
He smiles and stretches toward her on his toes. Pushing up on his palms to drop a kiss on her forehead before he's back to the work at hand.
"Alexis," he says. "Cooking for her . . . mapping out meals and making them happen." He turns to the refrigerator. Faces away from her a little longer than necessary. Everything's a little too close to the surface tonight. Joy and pain alike. New delight and old wounds. "It was . . . order out of chaos. With Meredith there after . . . when she wasn't . . . it was something I could make happen with time and effort."
They fall quiet a while after that. He whistles and she hums. It's easy silence, though a little sad. A sharp note of sorrow that throws the good here into sharp relief.
"My dad . . ." she says after a while. He watches her as he scoops things into plastic and battens down the lids. She's wondering whether it's a story for now or later. She shakes her head and it seems like she decides that she doesn't need to know. "When he was spiraling down, I though if I could cook for him-make my mom's dishes-that he'd pull out of it. But . . ."
She trails off. Stares down at her fingers on either side of her wine glass. Toys with a napkin ring, rolling it back and forth and back and forth.
"But . . .?" He sets down his towel. He stills himself to listen.
"But he was too far gone." She shrugs. It's a hurt that's healed, mostly. A scar, rather than a wound. He knows the difference with her. "And it was just . . . all of it got tied up with bad memories. All the things my mom made."
"And now?" His fingers make their way across the island to find hers. To still them and hold them.
"Now . . ." She smiles a little sadly. She kisses his fingertips. "Dad and I do diners and take out."
He smiles back at her. Moves to pull his fingers from hers. To get back to business, but she holds on. She worries the corner of her lip a moment before she looks up at him. Meets his eyes boldly. "This is the first time in years I've made some of this." She lets his finger go and gestures to the waiting line of dishes. Back toward the table. "The first time in years I've tried . . . to feed someone other than myself."
"Did she . . .?" He touches the napkin ring. Cups a rich red blossom drooping over the side of the vase in his palm. "Your mom. Did she go all out?"
"No." She looks off to the side. Out the window at the clearing sky. "Mom was . . . Practical. And always busy. She didn't like the whole production." She plucks a flower from the center if the arrangement. A bright, nodding sunflower. "I do," she says as she twirls the stem between her palms. "This part is me."
"I like both parts," he says with a grin.
He moves again for the towel. For plastic wrap and serving spoons, but she slips off the stool and comes for him. She tugs at his elbow and goes on her toes to the glass doors to the porch. She pulls him along.
Shreds of clouds race across the sky. The wind still moans, but the moon is bright and the rain is gone for now. It's a beautiful night. Beautiful.
"Walk with me," she says as she slides the door back. As she raises their hands and turns in barefoot circles out into the night. "Walk with me."
A/N: again, thanks for reading something about nothing. I enjoyed writing this and have appreciated the support.
WC: ~1900, 5500 total
Summary: "She wants that. The sweetness of settling next to him, words and sounds and satisfaction rolling over them both. The quiet pleasure of feeding him. Of making this her place, too. Their place." A story of indeterminate length about nothing at all. Set some time not too long after "Murder, He Wrote" (5 x 04). Now complete.
He reins it in. His natural inclination to mess with her system. Usually he would, because he has this neat trick and he would have done that differently. Because she probably didn’t realize that he has this cool thing . . . Because he like likes her, and it's fun to rile her up. Usually he'd meddle.
But he's caught up in her way of doing things. In how much care she's taken. Neat edges and precise placement. This color next to that, and napkins that must’ve been high enough up somewhere that he’d forgotten they had them. They’re perfect, though. Color and texture and the tight spiral in the beach-glass rings. He smiles down at them. He turns the neat bundles in his own fingers like they still hold the warmth of her touch.
Everything is perfect, and he has the urge to explore instead. To study this and know her in new ways. He revels in it, puzzling out the finishing touches from the rest of the tableau. He slots things into place with a sense of satisfaction. It's new. A rare pleasure to fall into her like this. Curiously intimate to take up work she's left so nearly finished and adds his own touches here and there.
He gets lost. Fully present, with his mind wide open to sensation rushing to fill him up. Scent and warmth and little things that need doing. He grins to himself as he bustles from place to place, her intentions so clear that it's like her hand at the small of his back and her chin over his shoulder. Fond, bossy words in his ear.
She takes advantage of it. How lost in this he is. She sneaks up on him. She snaps on the music and laughs as he whirls around, the chef's knife clutched to his chest.
She laughs, beautiful and bright and the force of it almost knocks him down. The vision she is. The thin straps at her shoulders and the fall of her dress. The colors. Irregular panes of jewel tones that hold light like stained glass. The blush of her skin.
She's balanced on one foot, slipping on her sandal. He loves her for the eagerness written here. Written everywhere, though she's dressed for company. It's written in the sweep of her hair into a careless, elegant knot and the furrows her fingers left along the way. He loves the irregular wink of combs and hairpins and the fact that shoes are an afterthought because she was eager to be with him.
They come together just inside the kitchen threshold. The long, slow glide of his hand at her hip. Hers at his shoulder and their twined fingers together curled to the center of his chest.
The music is a cheerful staccato. Strange instruments rendering a sunny spring shower in sound. It's something he loves. Something she's just getting to know. It makes the kitchen feel bright and snug. A haven for two as a quite different storm rolls and swells and hammers at the shutters outside.
It's perfect. It's joyous, and he tugs her to him. He sways with her in his arms, building and building with the music until it's a whirling dance around the counter. Until she laughs and crashes into his body. Tips her head back and waits for his kiss.
"I love this," he murmurs. "Thank you. I love this."
She grows quiet. She stills herself. She stills the two of them together as she takes his face in her hands.
"You're welcome," she whispers. "And thank you. I'm glad you like it. I'm so glad."
The meal is perfect. The blend of flavors and the textures she's brought together. The wine that has a story and the way they can't get near enough to one another. The way everything is more-sharper, richer, sweeter, and more fragrant-when she lifts a bite to his lips on her own fork. When he kisses her and flavors mingle on his tongue and hers.
She's shy at first. A little quieter than usual, and he knows she's not sure if he's teasing or not when he's all eager questions and effusive praise. But it really is perfect.
She opens up. She slips her sandals off and her toes dance across the hardwood floor. Her hands splay wide and she gestures with her silverware. With her wine glass tipped toward him and a knowing smile.
She tells him funny stories. How some junior associate of her mother's got stuck babysitting through some comedy of errors and together they learned the crucial difference between heads of garlic and cloves.
"You could smell it on my skin from the front door." She laughs and steals a sip of his wine. She's done with hers and wants the next bottle for dessert. "My dad wanted to open the hydrant in front of the apartment and stand me in the stream until I was fit for human companionship again."
He drops his mouth to her shoulder like he might taste it now. She shivers and teases him a little. She lets one strap slip halfway down her arm and sighs into his hair. She tightens her fingers against his thigh, but she's gone the next moment. A flash of color ducking out the far side of the table and spinning away.
"More bread," she says lightly.
She snaps at his hand with a deep red towel and darts to the counter to fill a basket and bring back another dish. She slides back close to him on the bench and lets him coax secrets from her. She lights up, pleased, when he falls into serious shop talk. When he admits her way is clever and he'd never thought to try it.
She nods and says Yes. Next time. I'd like that. when he asks her to show him. To teach him. She smiles like she might believe him when he promises to be good.
He sets her on a stool with her bare feet dangling while he straightens up. He brings her each candle and she purses her lips to blow them out. She gives him a pleased, dazzling smile after the last and his heart hurts. He sees her as a little girl. Jim and Johanna's little Katie, and he has to turn away.
He stoops and busies himself at the side of the island until he thinks his eyes might not shine quite so obviously. He comes up a bottle of wine and waits for her to nod. They've sampled three or four already tonight. Things she's chosen with care. Things that have stories, but this is an old stand-by. Something from a local place they'd found together.
He pours them each a generous glass and tells her stories of his own as he moves from table to sink to refrigerator, sealing and stacking and setting things to rights. He tells her how he learned not to cook by way of his mother's example.
"And then?" Kate sips eagerly. Her eyes are alight over the rim of her glass.
He hesitates. It must look for a minute like he might not answer. Like he's willfully misunderstanding what she's asking, and he thinks she's inclined to roll her eyes. Inclined to assume he's fishing for a compliment. He knows he's a good cook. He reminds her often enough that she's loath to feed his ego on that score. It's a game they play, but now something pulls her up short. He's lost in thought. In memory and a real answer. He sees what she must see. The way he's absently worrying the towel in his hands. The briefest furrow of his brow.
He smiles and stretches toward her on his toes. Pushing up on his palms to drop a kiss on her forehead before he's back to the work at hand.
"Alexis," he says. "Cooking for her . . . mapping out meals and making them happen." He turns to the refrigerator. Faces away from her a little longer than necessary. Everything's a little too close to the surface tonight. Joy and pain alike. New delight and old wounds. "It was . . . order out of chaos. With Meredith there after . . . when she wasn't . . . it was something I could make happen with time and effort."
They fall quiet a while after that. He whistles and she hums. It's easy silence, though a little sad. A sharp note of sorrow that throws the good here into sharp relief.
"My dad . . ." she says after a while. He watches her as he scoops things into plastic and battens down the lids. She's wondering whether it's a story for now or later. She shakes her head and it seems like she decides that she doesn't need to know. "When he was spiraling down, I though if I could cook for him-make my mom's dishes-that he'd pull out of it. But . . ."
She trails off. Stares down at her fingers on either side of her wine glass. Toys with a napkin ring, rolling it back and forth and back and forth.
"But . . .?" He sets down his towel. He stills himself to listen.
"But he was too far gone." She shrugs. It's a hurt that's healed, mostly. A scar, rather than a wound. He knows the difference with her. "And it was just . . . all of it got tied up with bad memories. All the things my mom made."
"And now?" His fingers make their way across the island to find hers. To still them and hold them.
"Now . . ." She smiles a little sadly. She kisses his fingertips. "Dad and I do diners and take out."
He smiles back at her. Moves to pull his fingers from hers. To get back to business, but she holds on. She worries the corner of her lip a moment before she looks up at him. Meets his eyes boldly. "This is the first time in years I've made some of this." She lets his finger go and gestures to the waiting line of dishes. Back toward the table. "The first time in years I've tried . . . to feed someone other than myself."
"Did she . . .?" He touches the napkin ring. Cups a rich red blossom drooping over the side of the vase in his palm. "Your mom. Did she go all out?"
"No." She looks off to the side. Out the window at the clearing sky. "Mom was . . . Practical. And always busy. She didn't like the whole production." She plucks a flower from the center if the arrangement. A bright, nodding sunflower. "I do," she says as she twirls the stem between her palms. "This part is me."
"I like both parts," he says with a grin.
He moves again for the towel. For plastic wrap and serving spoons, but she slips off the stool and comes for him. She tugs at his elbow and goes on her toes to the glass doors to the porch. She pulls him along.
Shreds of clouds race across the sky. The wind still moans, but the moon is bright and the rain is gone for now. It's a beautiful night. Beautiful.
"Walk with me," she says as she slides the door back. As she raises their hands and turns in barefoot circles out into the night. "Walk with me."
A/N: again, thanks for reading something about nothing. I enjoyed writing this and have appreciated the support.