Remember that lovely generator that inspired me to write Anniversary? Yes, well, I used it again. I got the prompt "female character – cookies and milk" and, for some reason, this came to mind. I know that Jules didn't live with her mother or anything, but I realized that after I had finished writing. So. AU TIME! I hate AUs, generally, but since Jules' mom isn't such a huge part of her life, maybe this is an exception? I feel like it's pointless and blah but I felt like I should put something up that isn't angsty. I'm going to stop writing now because if I keep babbling the AN is going to be longer than the actual story. So. Enjoy! Or try to.
Even after the longest of days, the hardest of jobs, the worst of commute, there is one thing that can always turn her mood around. She remembers the day her grandmother died, back when she was five, and her father was locked up in his room, deadly silent and overwhelmingly emotional. Her brothers, old enough to understand, were sitting around, solemn, trying to grasp reality. Her mom worked in the kitchen all day, finally gathering them all in the living room around dinnertime and presenting them with a plate of hot cookies and glasses of cold milk. It made the heavy sadness of the day seem less severe.
This happened again and again over the years. Her father lost his job, they relocated out to a farm, she had to share a bedroom with one of her brothers; she started a new school, her friend stabbed her in the back, her first boyfriend broke her heart; she was rejected by her top college, she flunked out of her second, her father gave her the silent treatment when she was accepted to the police academy – there were always cookies and milk, courtesy of her mother, to dull the pain.
It was like carrying a piece of her family with her, reverting back to that. It was all of her memories summarized into two, simple things. She couldn't remember any cry she had had that wasn't followed immediately by cookies and milk. Her mother fully believed in comfort food and was always ready to whip something up, apron already being tied before a request was finished.
Her mother died shortly after she was placed on Team One. She was lost for a while, taking time off with nothing to distract her but her own thoughts. On the third night after, she was sitting on her bed in her room, surrounded by tissues and photo books. She flipped the page; the picture was of her, standing on a chair in the kitchen, about seven years old. Her mother was standing next to her, eyes closed and mouth open, laughing. She was holding a spatula, and little Julianna Callaghan was sneaking a taste of the cookie batter, mischievous eyes watching to make sure nobody saw.
She knew exactly what she had to do to make herself feel better.
The night she broke it off with Sam, she knew what to do. Her friends in the past had always preferred hot baths or sad movies or long cries, but she had never really cared for any of that. She set up shop in her kitchen, experimenting with different recipes. She was up until three, elbow-deep in flour and cookie dough, the bruises from the gun wound aching from the medication she had forgotten to take after dinner. But it was therapeutic, calming. The ache in her heart from missing a chance, making a decision, losing Sam – it was gentler, reduced from a throbbing pain to a minor discomfort. As long as she had her warm cookies and her cold milk, she would be okay.
