Author's Note: I have a cold and I feel ick so I needed to cheer myself up a bit, hence this. Writing it did indeed seem to cheer me up a bit. [Coughs pathetically.]
Bacchus Bakes
George was seated behind his desk and had already had his first cup of tea when John finally made his appearance in the station just after half nine. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and ready to make a comment about his sergeant's tardiness when noticed how hunched over John was. The scenarios that could cause John to be late ran through his head—an argument with Lisa, a problem with his car, a late night out...
The possibility of the first made George pause, and he decided to hold back his snarky comment until such time as he knew the context.
John was huddled over his coat, which he was carrying rather than wearing, and his usual mumbled greetings to Taylor and the other officers in the outer office were non-existent this morning. George frowned. Must be bad, he thought.
He watched silently as John elbowed the door to their shared office open, his face hidden behind his hair. He closed the door behind him with his foot, before carefully making his way over to his desk. The fact that he hadn't said a word yet did nothing to lessen George's worry.
George could stand the silence no longer. "Morning, John," he said amicably. A neutral greeting, one that anyone with manners would automatically return—George wasn't holding out too much hope.
John set his coat down on the desk with more care than was really necessary. "Good morning, sir," he replied after a moment. He didn't sound angry, or resigned.
'Good morning', is it? George decided pointing out the obvious would probably be his best course of action since his predictably unpredictable sergeant had him stumped. "You're late," he said.
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," John answered, not sounding sorry, "but I was getting these ready for you!" He whipped his coat off his desk like a magician revealing a trick, a stupidly childish grin on his face. Under the coat was a plate of gingerbread men, some with blackened arms and legs, and one with no head at all.
The sudden change in John's demeanour threatened to give George whiplash.
"Ta-dah!" John finished with his arms outstretched while George gawked at him.
What on earth..? George opened and closed his mouth a few times before something resembling a sentence agreed to come out. "Since when do you cook?"
John looked a little hurt. "I'm a divorced man, sir, o' course I can cook! I can warm up a can of soup on the stove—oh—and I can open a packet of Digestives... do you think I eat all o' my meals out or summat?"
"Well, no..." To be honest, George hadn't given it all that much thought—he had more important things to worry about, like catching murderers. "I just didn't have you down as a baker, that's all."
"Me and Leigh-Anne made these this mornin' before she went off to school," John said proudly. "I had to wait for this last batch to come out of the oven before I came to work. They could've been burnt, you know."
George eyed the few scorched gingerbread men but kept his mouth shut on the matter.
"Would you like to try one, sir?" John asked.
Under other circumstances George would have politely refused, but John got to spend so little time with his daughter these days, and he was always so happy for the rest of the day afterward. George would be a lesser man if he declined the fruits—or gingerbread men—of their labours now.
"All right," he nodded and John brought the plate over to him. "Just the one, mind."
John chuckled quietly to himself as George tried to choose between the various gingerbread men—and ladies, he noticed. "Trying to watch the figure, are we, sir?"
George stopped to give John a sharp look. "No. Taylor's not long after bringing me tea and biscuits, as a matter-of-fact."
"Oh." John attempted to sober himself, clearing his throat. "Sorry, sir."
He went back to his choices. After some more internal debate he decided to go for one of the gingerbread ladies that Leigh-Anne must have decorated with pink jelly beans. She was the least burnt of the lot, and George was happy that he'd got the pick of the batch.
"What happened to this one?" he asked, pointing at the one with no head.
John picked it up and bit it in half. "I was hungry," he shrugged.
George examined the strategically placed pink jelly beans, making it look like the gingerbread lady had a fetching cardigan on. "Nicely decorated," he commented.
John sat down at his desk, the plate within easy reach. "Thank you, sir," he smiled and devoured the last of the headless gingerbread man.
"That was you?" George blinked at his sergeant. "I thought it was Leigh-Anne."
"She was already at school," he said absently as his hand hovered over the plate before he chose his next victim.
George took a careful bite out of his gingerbread lady's leg while another gingerbread lady was decapitated by John, who chewed nosily. It didn't taste too bad, actually—surprisingly good, if a little singed.
"What was all that just now, then, looking all hunched over?" George asked, waving the gingerbread lady vaguely in the direction of the outer office. He took another bite and now that he was past the burnt part it tasted even better, truth be told.
John actually blushed. "I... I didn't want the lads to see me with... you know..."
"God forbid any of them question your masculinity, John," George chuckled. He waited a moment, ignoring John's glare, before saying, with a mischievous glint in his eye, "Do you know what this needs?"
"What?" John looked up, genuinely interested.
"It needs a good cup of tea," George announced. "Taylor!" he bellowed.
John whined and muttered mutinously as PC Taylor appeared in the doorway. Despite John's best efforts to hide the plate of gingerbread ladies and gentlemen, Taylor's usual promptness meant he responded quickly. He gave the plate a confused look before turning his attention to George.
"Sir?"
"John's been doing some home baking and we need two cups of tea, please, Taylor, quick as you like," said George.
Taylor nodded and went off to prepare two of his legendary teas.
"Hey, pick that up!" ordered George as a gingerbread man's head narrowly missed his own as it flew past.
THE END
A/N: Thank you so very much for reading, kind IGG fan! :) [Pathetic sniffling.]