fic: Christmas Cookies (aka the last fic of 2013!)
(for this prompt for an anonymous wisher on insmallpackages - "original m/m ficlet, minimal angst, Christmas cookies". there's actually no angst, because it's me. :D )
Rian is not the best cook, but he can bake. There's something very satisfying about throwing together flour and butter and sugar and vanilla, and getting cookies out of it. It's more satisfying to him than throwing things in a crockpot and getting chicken soup or chili, which is his housemate Charley's preferred way of cooking things. Rian wants to feel as if he put some effort into it.
Right now he is putting a lot of effort into it, because his sugar cookie dough has hit the “needs to go back in the fridge to chill some more” stage, and is sticking to the parchment paper he covered it with so he could roll it out. (He doesn't have a cover for the rolling pin, and he didn't want to have to keep flouring it every five minutes. He should've asked for a marble rolling pin for Christmas so he wouldn't have to worry about anything sticking to it.) There's a batch of Christmas-tree-shaped cookies in the oven about to come out and a fresh baking sheet covered with unbaked tree shapes waiting to go in, and he's carefully peeling parchment paper off his dough so he can cut out more cookies.
“Time for the fridge,” he tells the dough, moving it into the fridge to chill. This is not the first time he's made these cookies, and he should have remembered that as the dough gets warmer, it sticks to everything. Also, it becomes more likely to spread when baked, and cut-out cookies aren't supposed to spread.
Dough dealt with, he turns on the oven light, checks the batch of cookies currently baking, and takes a moment to enjoy the peaceful silence in the house and the Christmas music coming from his iPod dock. Rian's mother has been an atheist since before he was born and his stepfather is a lapsed Catholic, and he grew up fairly free of religious holiday trappings. He knows enough carols because they're inescapable this time of year, not because he ever sang them at home or learned them in church. And maybe because it doesn't come with any religious baggage, he loves the Christmas season - the goodwill towards one's fellow human, the holiday lights, the way the city decorates its public spaces, the festive food (he's never baked a fruitcake because both his housemates would kick him out, but they can't escape his cookies), the sincere “Happy Holidays” and “Merry Christmas” from his students and from total strangers, the time off work, the holiday specials on TV, and the songs.
He's halfway through the Pogues “Fairytale of New York” when the timer goes off, meaning the cookie trees in the oven are done and the cookie trees sitting on the baking sheet can go in. He sings to them as he pulls the finished ones out of the oven and slides the unbaked ones in.
“And the boys of the NYPD Choir are singing 'Galway Bay', and the bells are - “
“Do I smell cookies?” his housemate Charley says from the doorway, interrupting him. Rian hadn't even heard the front door open. Charley must have just come in, because he's still wearing his coat.
“Not for you,” he finishes, trying to match his words to the tune of the song. Charley laughs. “I still have to decorate them.” He has grand plans for decorating the tree cookies, involving shiny green glaze and silver dragees and red gel frosting, and once the dough in the fridge is chilled enough to cut into shapes, he has a bell-shaped cutter to make Christmas bell cookies as well. Those will hopefully be red with green stripes. He has blocked off the entire day to bake and frost cookies, so if he runs out of something he'll have time to go get it.
Or he could sent Charley to the store, for no other reason than to keep him from staring at the naked cookies as Rian slides them off the baking sheet and onto a rack to cool.
“Don't stare at my cookies,” Rian tells him, and Charley laughs again.
“That sounds like a euphemism,” he says. “If I was Lina I'd smack you for getting fresh.” Lina is their other housemate. Rian isn't quite sure where she is, but as long as she's not in the kitchen getting in his way, he doesn't think it matters. “Are you making those for us?”
“No. You remember Kiko?”
“No.” Charley plops down in a kitchen chair. Rian unrolls a fresh sheet of parchment paper and lays it over the now-empty baking sheet.
“Science teacher? Short, cute, caffiene molecule tattooed on her arm?”
Rian teaches middle-school math. Most of his friends are fellow teachers, former teachers, or administrative staff. Lina's always telling him he needs to get out and meet some non-academics. He always answers that he does know non-academics, they just happen to work in an academic setting.
“Well, she's having an open house for Christmas,” Rian continues. “She asked me to bring cookies.”
“Do we get any?”
“Maybe.”
“You'll need a taste tester.” Charley grins.
“Why are you still wearing your coat?”
“Don't change the subject.”
Rian opens the fridge, retrieves the half-rolled-out dough from before, and sets it on the table. Charley admires it. Rian attempts to roll it out some more, then peels off the top sheet of parchment paper and goes at it with the bell-shaped cookie cutter. Charley watches him cut out cookies and lay them on the baking sheet.
“Stop watching me,” Rian says. “You're making me nervous.”
“Performance anxiety?” Charley grins widely and snickers. Rian can feel himself starting to blush.
“Go away. Go take your coat off. You're making me hot just looking at you.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth he realizes that he just gave Charley an opening for more innuendo, but thankfully Charley does not rise to the bait. He just heaves himself to his feet and heads back towards the front of the house to evidently take off and hang up his coat.
Rian wishes he lived with someone he didn't think he might be interested in. It's not a conversation he's looking forward to having with anyone, so he hopes he won't have to.
He fills the baking sheet with unbaked bells, pushes the cookies around on the cooling rack to make room for the ones that are soon to come out of the oven, and glances at the clock. It's a little after two. He has lots of time.
His Christmas playlist has finished “The Twelve Pains of Christmas” and segued into the David Bowie/Bing Crosby version of “The Little Drummer Boy” by the time the cookie trees in the oven are done and he can replace them with the sheet of raw cookie bells.
He's cutting out more bells when Charley comes back, now divested of his coat and wearing a truly obnoxious Christmas sweater. It has fringe and a red-nosed reindeer and what look like snowflakes embroidered out of glittery yarn. There's a velvet mistletoe leaf pinned to the shoulder.
“That's terrifying,” Rian comments. “Where did you get it?” And why are you wearing it?
Charley sits down, coincidentally close to the counter where the baked and cooling cookies are sitting. He looks absurdly pleased with himself. “My sister sent it to me. Isn't it terrible? I sent her a squid nativity in exchange. Her kids will probably love it.”
Rian is an only child and as such does not understand - but kind of envies - the strange relationship Charley has with his older sister. They do things to each other that would look mean or offensive coming from anyone else, but which are clearly done out of affection and a shared history. Lina has two brothers and from what Rian can tell, she has the same kind of relationship with them.
“Did you share my nerd nativity?” Rian asks, just as the timer dings for the cookies in the oven. He grabs a potholder to take out the baking sheet and replace it with the new sheet of unbaked cookies. He thinks he has one more baking sheet's worth of cookies, and then he just has to wait for them all to cool before he can start decorating.
“I shared your nerd nativity with everyone.”
The nerd nativity, which Rian put together because he never grew up with one, involves action figures of three different incarnations of Dr Who as the three wise men, Han Solo and Buffy the vampire slayer as Joseph and Mary, a tiny plastic baby Jesus lying inside Captain America's shield, a Serenity Christmas tree ornament that Charley found for him on Etsy as the star of Bethlehem, and Captain America (sans shield) as the shepherd with a couple of My Little Ponies standing in for his sheep. Rian is very proud of it. Charley is too, apparently.
“You can have a cookie if you don't mind they're naked,” Rian says, because Charley is reaching for one anyway. Charley takes two. “Pig.” But he says it with affection.
Charley says something that's probably “These are really good,” but it's hard to tell because his mouth is full. His face says enough. Rian takes the opportunity to push the fresh - and still hot - batch onto the cooling rack.
The iPod switches to a traditional version of the Carol of the Bells. Charley swallows the last bite of cookie. Rian puts more parchment paper on the now-empty baking sheet and preps the dough for the last round of cookie-cutting. Charley unpins the fake mistletoe leaf from his sweater, and for a minute Rian is concerned that it's going to end up on a cookie. But then Charley stands, walks over to him, holds the mistletoe over their heads - which requires a little stretching, as Rian is taller - pulls Rian's face close, and kisses him.
It's not a long kiss, but it's a very sincere one.
“The next time you think I'm staring at your cookies,” Charley says after they pull apart, “I might actually be staring at your mouth.”
Rian doesn't know how to answer that. He's pretty sure he's blushing. He never expected that Charley would be interested in him, not like that. He's glad he thought wrong.
“You still can't have any until they're frosted,” he says.
“Can't have any what?”
“Cookies.”
Charley just kisses him again. And that's ok with Rian.
Rian is not the best cook, but he can bake. There's something very satisfying about throwing together flour and butter and sugar and vanilla, and getting cookies out of it. It's more satisfying to him than throwing things in a crockpot and getting chicken soup or chili, which is his housemate Charley's preferred way of cooking things. Rian wants to feel as if he put some effort into it.
Right now he is putting a lot of effort into it, because his sugar cookie dough has hit the “needs to go back in the fridge to chill some more” stage, and is sticking to the parchment paper he covered it with so he could roll it out. (He doesn't have a cover for the rolling pin, and he didn't want to have to keep flouring it every five minutes. He should've asked for a marble rolling pin for Christmas so he wouldn't have to worry about anything sticking to it.) There's a batch of Christmas-tree-shaped cookies in the oven about to come out and a fresh baking sheet covered with unbaked tree shapes waiting to go in, and he's carefully peeling parchment paper off his dough so he can cut out more cookies.
“Time for the fridge,” he tells the dough, moving it into the fridge to chill. This is not the first time he's made these cookies, and he should have remembered that as the dough gets warmer, it sticks to everything. Also, it becomes more likely to spread when baked, and cut-out cookies aren't supposed to spread.
Dough dealt with, he turns on the oven light, checks the batch of cookies currently baking, and takes a moment to enjoy the peaceful silence in the house and the Christmas music coming from his iPod dock. Rian's mother has been an atheist since before he was born and his stepfather is a lapsed Catholic, and he grew up fairly free of religious holiday trappings. He knows enough carols because they're inescapable this time of year, not because he ever sang them at home or learned them in church. And maybe because it doesn't come with any religious baggage, he loves the Christmas season - the goodwill towards one's fellow human, the holiday lights, the way the city decorates its public spaces, the festive food (he's never baked a fruitcake because both his housemates would kick him out, but they can't escape his cookies), the sincere “Happy Holidays” and “Merry Christmas” from his students and from total strangers, the time off work, the holiday specials on TV, and the songs.
He's halfway through the Pogues “Fairytale of New York” when the timer goes off, meaning the cookie trees in the oven are done and the cookie trees sitting on the baking sheet can go in. He sings to them as he pulls the finished ones out of the oven and slides the unbaked ones in.
“And the boys of the NYPD Choir are singing 'Galway Bay', and the bells are - “
“Do I smell cookies?” his housemate Charley says from the doorway, interrupting him. Rian hadn't even heard the front door open. Charley must have just come in, because he's still wearing his coat.
“Not for you,” he finishes, trying to match his words to the tune of the song. Charley laughs. “I still have to decorate them.” He has grand plans for decorating the tree cookies, involving shiny green glaze and silver dragees and red gel frosting, and once the dough in the fridge is chilled enough to cut into shapes, he has a bell-shaped cutter to make Christmas bell cookies as well. Those will hopefully be red with green stripes. He has blocked off the entire day to bake and frost cookies, so if he runs out of something he'll have time to go get it.
Or he could sent Charley to the store, for no other reason than to keep him from staring at the naked cookies as Rian slides them off the baking sheet and onto a rack to cool.
“Don't stare at my cookies,” Rian tells him, and Charley laughs again.
“That sounds like a euphemism,” he says. “If I was Lina I'd smack you for getting fresh.” Lina is their other housemate. Rian isn't quite sure where she is, but as long as she's not in the kitchen getting in his way, he doesn't think it matters. “Are you making those for us?”
“No. You remember Kiko?”
“No.” Charley plops down in a kitchen chair. Rian unrolls a fresh sheet of parchment paper and lays it over the now-empty baking sheet.
“Science teacher? Short, cute, caffiene molecule tattooed on her arm?”
Rian teaches middle-school math. Most of his friends are fellow teachers, former teachers, or administrative staff. Lina's always telling him he needs to get out and meet some non-academics. He always answers that he does know non-academics, they just happen to work in an academic setting.
“Well, she's having an open house for Christmas,” Rian continues. “She asked me to bring cookies.”
“Do we get any?”
“Maybe.”
“You'll need a taste tester.” Charley grins.
“Why are you still wearing your coat?”
“Don't change the subject.”
Rian opens the fridge, retrieves the half-rolled-out dough from before, and sets it on the table. Charley admires it. Rian attempts to roll it out some more, then peels off the top sheet of parchment paper and goes at it with the bell-shaped cookie cutter. Charley watches him cut out cookies and lay them on the baking sheet.
“Stop watching me,” Rian says. “You're making me nervous.”
“Performance anxiety?” Charley grins widely and snickers. Rian can feel himself starting to blush.
“Go away. Go take your coat off. You're making me hot just looking at you.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth he realizes that he just gave Charley an opening for more innuendo, but thankfully Charley does not rise to the bait. He just heaves himself to his feet and heads back towards the front of the house to evidently take off and hang up his coat.
Rian wishes he lived with someone he didn't think he might be interested in. It's not a conversation he's looking forward to having with anyone, so he hopes he won't have to.
He fills the baking sheet with unbaked bells, pushes the cookies around on the cooling rack to make room for the ones that are soon to come out of the oven, and glances at the clock. It's a little after two. He has lots of time.
His Christmas playlist has finished “The Twelve Pains of Christmas” and segued into the David Bowie/Bing Crosby version of “The Little Drummer Boy” by the time the cookie trees in the oven are done and he can replace them with the sheet of raw cookie bells.
He's cutting out more bells when Charley comes back, now divested of his coat and wearing a truly obnoxious Christmas sweater. It has fringe and a red-nosed reindeer and what look like snowflakes embroidered out of glittery yarn. There's a velvet mistletoe leaf pinned to the shoulder.
“That's terrifying,” Rian comments. “Where did you get it?” And why are you wearing it?
Charley sits down, coincidentally close to the counter where the baked and cooling cookies are sitting. He looks absurdly pleased with himself. “My sister sent it to me. Isn't it terrible? I sent her a squid nativity in exchange. Her kids will probably love it.”
Rian is an only child and as such does not understand - but kind of envies - the strange relationship Charley has with his older sister. They do things to each other that would look mean or offensive coming from anyone else, but which are clearly done out of affection and a shared history. Lina has two brothers and from what Rian can tell, she has the same kind of relationship with them.
“Did you share my nerd nativity?” Rian asks, just as the timer dings for the cookies in the oven. He grabs a potholder to take out the baking sheet and replace it with the new sheet of unbaked cookies. He thinks he has one more baking sheet's worth of cookies, and then he just has to wait for them all to cool before he can start decorating.
“I shared your nerd nativity with everyone.”
The nerd nativity, which Rian put together because he never grew up with one, involves action figures of three different incarnations of Dr Who as the three wise men, Han Solo and Buffy the vampire slayer as Joseph and Mary, a tiny plastic baby Jesus lying inside Captain America's shield, a Serenity Christmas tree ornament that Charley found for him on Etsy as the star of Bethlehem, and Captain America (sans shield) as the shepherd with a couple of My Little Ponies standing in for his sheep. Rian is very proud of it. Charley is too, apparently.
“You can have a cookie if you don't mind they're naked,” Rian says, because Charley is reaching for one anyway. Charley takes two. “Pig.” But he says it with affection.
Charley says something that's probably “These are really good,” but it's hard to tell because his mouth is full. His face says enough. Rian takes the opportunity to push the fresh - and still hot - batch onto the cooling rack.
The iPod switches to a traditional version of the Carol of the Bells. Charley swallows the last bite of cookie. Rian puts more parchment paper on the now-empty baking sheet and preps the dough for the last round of cookie-cutting. Charley unpins the fake mistletoe leaf from his sweater, and for a minute Rian is concerned that it's going to end up on a cookie. But then Charley stands, walks over to him, holds the mistletoe over their heads - which requires a little stretching, as Rian is taller - pulls Rian's face close, and kisses him.
It's not a long kiss, but it's a very sincere one.
“The next time you think I'm staring at your cookies,” Charley says after they pull apart, “I might actually be staring at your mouth.”
Rian doesn't know how to answer that. He's pretty sure he's blushing. He never expected that Charley would be interested in him, not like that. He's glad he thought wrong.
“You still can't have any until they're frosted,” he says.
“Can't have any what?”
“Cookies.”
Charley just kisses him again. And that's ok with Rian.