I was inspired by a tumblr post in which Hugh asks, "Is something the matter Dottie? Is it the tea?" I don't know the context in which that question was asked in the episode but I thought it might be funny to explore the idea of Hugh cooking for Dot.

The moment the words came out of his mouth, Hugh Collins knew he'd put his foot in it. If there was a trait Hugh could be proud of, it was his keen observational skills. He put it to excellent use every day—in gathering evidence at a crime scene or in getting a read on a suspect in the interrogation room. So he could pretty much rely on what his eyes told him when he saw Dot's reaction. He saw the way her sweet, smiling face cloud over in anger and her pretty pink lips curl up. And when hot, vituperative words came out of those pretty pink lips there was no denying it: Hugh said the wrong thing.

He didn't mean to insult Dot, or mock her wish to learn how to drive. Of course, she was so clever, she really could drive if she had a mind to learn. He didn't hear the end of that tirade for a long while, for she pulled him aside and further told him he better think twice about expecting her to stay at home all day and cook and clean for him when they married. She was a modern woman, and in fact, she was considering maintaining a career outside the home, so what did he think about that? Hugh's eyes had widened at what he was hearing, and even more surprised to discover how fiery Dot could be when her feathers were ruffled. He had opened his mouth once to try to apologize, but Dot put up a finger and said, "Don't. I'm not through yet, Hugh Collins." Well, when she used that tone of voice, he knew the best thing to do was duck and bear the body blows.

When Dot finished, he managed to stammer out his apologies. Dot then visibly calmed down, kissed him, and patted his chest. He was forgiven, but would it be forgotten? Sometimes Hugh couldn't believe his good fortune. He had found a wonderful girl who promised to be his wife, but deep down Hugh felt a little fearful that one day Dot might come to her senses and realize that she was better than he deserved. So it was that fear that drove him to think of a way to make it up to her. Flowers, jewelry, or perfume wasn't the answer. He thought, with Christmas around the corner, what better gift could he give her than cooking a meal for her?

Hugh was used to making simple dishes that satisfied a bachelor like him—stews with vegetables and meat or sandwiches. He'd never really thought about preparing a formal meal. For a moment he thought about ringing his mother for advice but decided against it. He definitely did not want her to laugh or give her any wrongful impression that he was marrying a bride who was not only Catholic, but who was also useless in the kitchen. Then an idea came to him: Mr. Butler.

December 23

The mustachioed butcher nervously eyed the young constable standing in his shop. He just knew his game was up and vowed that he would stop mixing entrails and fat in the ground beef and passing it off as 100% lean. With a calming breath he asked if he could be of any assistance.

Hugh quickly replied that he was just looking, to the consternation of the butcher, who told him to tap the bell on the counter if he had any questions and scurried to the back room to tidy up in case there was an inspection. Hugh cast an anxious glance outside the window for Mr. Butler, and peeked into the cooling cases. The choices before him were overwhelming—fresh and crimson ribeye steaks, knobby lengths of oxtail, pink cuts of pork and veal, glistening sausages.

The entrance bell tinkled and Hugh breathed a sigh of relief to see the smiling face of Mr. Butler. "Am I ever glad to see you."

The old servant's eyes twinkled. "Sorry I'm late. I know I promised I'd also go to the greengrocer's with you, but Dot and I are cooking up a storm for Christmas—"

"You didn't tell her you were meeting me, did you?" Hugh gasped.

"Of course not, young sir," Mr. Butler frowned, slightly affronted. "I can keep a secret."

Hugh reddened. "Oh, I know…I didn't mean..."

"All right, so I don't have much time and have to get back soon. What are you thinking of preparing?"

"That's what I was counting on you to help me with. I've never really done anything like this before."

"Well, how about we start with what you can cook and go from there."

"I'm afraid I'm hopeless in the kitchen," Hugh admitted.

"Then we must keep it simple. What about a nice roast chicken? You'll just need to clean it thoroughly, season it, and let it roast in the oven."

Hugh grimaced as he remembered his mother dousing a freshly killed, beheaded chicken in boiling water and plucking its feathers. "When you say 'clean it' does that mean I'll need to bleed it and take out its feathers?"

"Mm, perhaps we can get one that's already prepared for you. It will cost extra though."

"I think it might be worth spending the extra money if I don't have to clean it."

"Let's have a chicken, then, ready to roast," Mr. Butler said, tapping the counter bell.

As the butcher prepared Hugh's purchase, Mr. Butler wrote out a recipe for seasoning and cooking the bird, and then leafed through some recipe cards for vegetable side dishes and desserts. "Follow these instructions to the letter, mind you. Otherwise you'll risk overcooking or undercooking. Here are some recipes for side dishes. All you have to do is get the vegetables at the greengrocer's." At Hugh's uneasy smile, he said reassuringly, "Ah, you'll manage just fine. I know Dottie will be so impressed."

December 24

With the back of one hand swiping his brow and the other clutching a cleaning rag, Hugh looked around his small living quarters. He had never used a mop, broom, and scrubbing brush within an inch of their lives but after several hours, he was satisfied that his flat was finally clean enough for Dot. The small Christmas tree in the corner was simply decorated with glittering tinsel and a dozen glass ornaments, and he set two glasses of chilled eggnog on the side table. He had the chicken roasting in the oven, and he opened the kitchen window a crack to let out some of the fragrant cooking smells. He started to prepare the "dining table": he had a folding table on which he and his friends would play cards and covered it with a white bed sheet. He found a small canning jar in the cupboard, placed some red amaryllis in it, and set it in the center. As he set down plates, glasses, and silverware on the table, it shook slightly so he folded up some small pieces of cardboard and pushed them under the legs to steady it. Hugh crossed his arms and inspected his handiwork—even Dot would not notice it was not a proper dining table.

Back in the kitchen, he started to wash and cut the string beans. He was feeling so pleased with himself that he'd bought a large bunch on discount. They appeared spotty, grayish, and wilted but he felt certain that only meant that they would take less cooking time. He set them to boil in some water. Slight sizzling sounds from the oven reminded him that he needed to check on the chicken, which was browning nicely on the outside.

"What am I missing?" Hugh said to himself. He counted off his fingers, "Main course, check. Side dish, check. Dottie's bringing bread and dessert…" He snapped his fingers. "The wine."

Now both Hugh and Dot were not big drinkers of spirits or wine. In fact, they were such lightweights that the little bit of champagne they had to celebrate their engagement made their heads swim. But Hugh knew enough from hearing Dot talk about Miss Fisher's romantic dinners that wine was a crucial element. So, he had chosen a bottle of red, figuring that Dot was used to the red Communion wine anyway. He filled a bucket with ice and set the bottle to chill.

Everything, in short, was now perfect.

At a little past seven o'clock Hugh was smartly dressed, the chicken was warming in the oven, the beans were drained (they looked strangely dull and not green), and the wine sufficiently chilled. A faint knock on the door set his heart hammering in his chest—Dot had arrived.

"Welcome," he said, opening the door wide. "Come through."

"Hello," she answered shyly, clutching a basket.

Dot entered tentatively. She felt a slight twinge of conscience about going alone to the home of a bachelor, but she brushed aside her insecurities. It was Christmas Eve, and she wanted to spend it with her fiancé; it was only going to be a matter of months before they would live together as man and wife. As she stepped across the threshold, she could smell the faintest scent of cleaning ammonia. "This is where you live," she said, as she looked around at his cozy flat—the shiny hardwood floors, tiny kitchen, the small side table, armchair, and sofa. Her eyes widened at the neatly made single bed in the far corner of the living area and she turned around, blushing.

"Yes," Hugh smiled nervously. "Can I take the basket and your coat?"

"Uh, yes," she said, handing him the basket and peeled off her gloves, hat, and coat. She was wearing the same floral print dress with the gold edging at the collar that she wore when he asked her to marry him. His breath caught in his throat at how lovely she looked, and he almost forgot himself until she laughed and asked, "Smells like we're going to have chicken."

"Yes, yes, we are. Uh, one minute…" He hastily put her coat on the sofa and set to work unpacking the basket.

"I brought a cake and dinner rolls," explained Dot.

"Thank you for that. It would have been a disaster if I did any baking," Hugh grinned from behind the kitchen's partition.

"Can I help you?" she asked, feeling slightly at sea.

"Uh, nope. No, you just stay right there. Help yourself to some eggnog. I'll be right over."

Dot looked appreciatively at the sparkling Christmas tree and the pretty amaryllis in the glass jar and she suppressed a giggle at the bed sheet that covered the table. "This is nice, Hugh. Everything looks festive."

"I'm glad you like it," Hugh said, as he came over and reached for a glass of eggnog. He held up his glass. "Merry Christmas," he toasted. Then he closed the gap between them and his eyes lingered over her lips. "I hope you're hungry."

It was on the tip of Dot's tongue to reply that what she was hungry for was not food, and then put her head down, as if to quell such thoughts. Hugh stepped back, thinking he'd made Dot uncomfortable, and cleared his throat. "Well, miss, have a seat right here."

Dot smiled happily as she settled into the chair Hugh pulled out for her. He poured some wine, and then brought out the rolls, beans with melting butter, and finally, the golden roast chicken. He started to carve out a piece, and then cried out, "It's still pink!"

"What?"

Hugh groaned. "How could the chicken be cooked on the outside but not on the inside?"

Dot winced. "Uh, did you tent it?"

"What's that?"

"Well, never mind. There must be some sections that are fully cooked. Here, let me carve."

Hugh slumped in his chair. He'd followed Mr. Butler's instructions exactly. The chicken was supposed to be the easiest dish to cook in the world and he'd ruined it. Dot scooped some beans on their plates. "This looks…interesting," she said brightly.

Finally they picked up their forks to eat. With hooded eyes Hugh watched Dot as she ate a mouthful of chicken. "It's not bad," she said. He tasted some on his own plate and thought it dry, but at least it was palatable. He watched her spear a bean with her fork, pop it into her mouth, chew once, and then swallow. She drank a mouthful of wine. He tasted the beans and to his dismay, they were soft and bland. "Uh, Dot…" he mumbled, embarrassed, "you don't have to eat any of the chicken or beans."

"No, I want to," she said. "I'm hungry."

"Come on, they're horrible." He pushed the beans and chicken around on his plate. "I just wanted to do something nice for you, and it's turned out dreadful."

"Hugh, this is lovely," she protested. "This is one of the best Christmas meals I've ever had."

He shook his head. "I never realized how hard it really is to cook and clean."

Dot set her fork down. "Did you really do this because I was angry the other day? That's all been forgotten."

"I have a whole new respect for women who have to keep house. I promise you, Dot, I will never take you for granted." He reached for the bread basket. "Well, at least we can still eat some buttered rolls."

It was in that instant that Dot felt her heart fill with a new burst of feeling and she wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him. She came around to Hugh's side of the table and bent her head to kiss him. His lips brushed against hers tentatively until she opened hers. And then his own arms were around her, drawing her closer and pulling her onto his lap, his fingers tracing the lines of her face. His hands slipped slowly, hesitantly, from her face to her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, and Dot felt her own heart beating faster as she covered his wandering hands with hers. He pulled away slightly, a question in his eyes. He broke into a wide grin when Dot replied, with an impish gleam in her eyes, "What do you say we just skip ahead to dessert?"

Merry Christmas to all MFMM readers and fans, especially to those who've reviewed and subscribed to my Hugh/Dot stories. Thanks for reading!