Umm...I made a crazy ridiculous request at burnmybridges's post so I think, by some kind of transitive property (WHO FAILED MATH FOREVER? OH, YEAH, THAT WAS ME.) I think I tagged myself
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I've got nothing to do but stress about my paper presentation tomorrow so I thought I'd write some domestic fluff instead. As Diane Keaton once said...la di da...
"Where did you get this recipe?" Arthur asked, squinting at the writing as if that might make the handwriting more legible. It didn't.
"I copied it from my mother's food blog," Eames said. He dipped a finger into the mixture and it was only after he popped it into his mouth that he noticed the shock on Arthur's face.
"Your mother has a food blog?" he asked, incredulous.
"Most definitely," Eames said, dipping his finger in again. "It's been her pet project for years." He held his finger out for Arthur (a generous offer, Eames thought) but Arthur swatted him away.
"These cookies have bicarbonate of soda and a bag of tea in them," Arthur said, pointing to the items on the recipe.
Eames shrugged and grinned. "I thought you said my penmanship was illegible, darling."
"Maybe I've cracked your code," Arthur muttered.
"Maybe I've cracked your--" Eames started to say in his best lascivious lilt but Arthur interrupted.
"Yes, I know, you must have your innuendos," Arthur said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "but can we get back to the subject of your mother's food blog?"
"Everyone needs a hobby."
"These cookies have a bag of tea in them."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Are you saying it's not a bad thing?"
"Try this," Eames said, holding out the fingerful of batter again. He waggled his eyebrows. Arthur tried to look annoyed but his expression ended up somewhere between a smirk and incredulous affection. "No, really, this will--"
"If you say it will 'blow my mind' I might just shoot you in the face," Arthur warned.
"I was going to say that an exquisite pleasure would invade your senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin," Eames said.
"I thought we talked about you quoting Proust," Arthur said, his voice dropping. He licked Eames's finger slowly.
"We talked about it," Eames said, his breath hitching, "but then you licked me--like you're doing now--and I got confused. Mixed signals and all."
Arthur pulled Eames towards him and he tasted like the batter--and the earl grey tea--and Eames made a mental note.
URGENT, self: Must memorize the madeleine passage in the original French for future reference.
"Where did you get this recipe?" Arthur asked, squinting at the writing as if that might make the handwriting more legible. It didn't.
"I copied it from my mother's food blog," Eames said. He dipped a finger into the mixture and it was only after he popped it into his mouth that he noticed the shock on Arthur's face.
"Your mother has a food blog?" he asked, incredulous.
"Most definitely," Eames said, dipping his finger in again. "It's been her pet project for years." He held his finger out for Arthur (a generous offer, Eames thought) but Arthur swatted him away.
"These cookies have bicarbonate of soda and a bag of tea in them," Arthur said, pointing to the items on the recipe.
Eames shrugged and grinned. "I thought you said my penmanship was illegible, darling."
"Maybe I've cracked your code," Arthur muttered.
"Maybe I've cracked your--" Eames started to say in his best lascivious lilt but Arthur interrupted.
"Yes, I know, you must have your innuendos," Arthur said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "but can we get back to the subject of your mother's food blog?"
"Everyone needs a hobby."
"These cookies have a bag of tea in them."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Are you saying it's not a bad thing?"
"Try this," Eames said, holding out the fingerful of batter again. He waggled his eyebrows. Arthur tried to look annoyed but his expression ended up somewhere between a smirk and incredulous affection. "No, really, this will--"
"If you say it will 'blow my mind' I might just shoot you in the face," Arthur warned.
"I was going to say that an exquisite pleasure would invade your senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin," Eames said.
"I thought we talked about you quoting Proust," Arthur said, his voice dropping. He licked Eames's finger slowly.
"We talked about it," Eames said, his breath hitching, "but then you licked me--like you're doing now--and I got confused. Mixed signals and all."
Arthur pulled Eames towards him and he tasted like the batter--and the earl grey tea--and Eames made a mental note.
URGENT, self: Must memorize the madeleine passage in the original French for future reference.
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