The warm light of sunrise tumbles in through the bedroom window, pinks and oranges spilling across Shiro's sleeping form. It paints something peaceful, ethereal; his jaw is slack, his brow is smooth, the rise and fall of his chest is slow and even.
Allura resists the urge to trace the contours of his face with her fingertips. He sleeps so deeply these days, but she doesn't want to risk it; he needs his rest. She watches over him, drinking in his beauty, until the cottage door creaks open, followed by soft footfalls and the rustle of grocery bags. Rising from her space beside Shiro on the mattress, she exits the bedroom to meet Keith in the kitchen area.
"Hello," she says.
Keith smiles. "Hi."
"He's still asleep," she says, before Keith can ask.
"Good," he says, setting the bags on the counter. "Yesterday took a lot out of him."
"Yes," she says. "That Garrison had so many questions for him, and your Earth journalists are quite aggressive. It's a good thing we were able to sneak him out of there when we did."
"Shiro and I used to escape from the Garrison all the time," he says, unpacking the ingredients and setting them on the marble surface. "Though it was usually just out to the desert, maybe the little town nearby. Not all the way across the border to the Holts' cottage out in the woods."
It's quiet, here, with no one around to disturb them. She peers out the open window at the massive trees surrounding them, the birds flitting about in the branches, and the sparkling lake beyond. The sounds, the smells; it's all so serene. "I can't believe Pidge didn't enjoy coming here when she was younger. This place is beautiful."
"Yeah." He rummages through the wooden drawers and cabinets, pulling out what he needs: bowls, cups, spoons; a whisk, a pan, a spatula. "Okay. Think we're set."
"You actually look like you know what you're doing," she muses.
He crosses his arms. "Just 'cause I didn't cook on the ship doesn't mean I don't know how. I'm no Hunk, but I know the basics. …I had to cook a lot for myself when he was younger," he adds, because she likes when he shares little details about his life. Neither he nor Shiro are particularly forthcoming with those, and she treasures every scrap she can get.
"Well then, my chef," she says. "Show me how it's done."
He measures things out in cups and spoons, dumping various white powders into the bigger bowl. He tells her what the ingredients are as he adds them: flour forms the base; sugar adds sweetness; baking powder helps it rise; salt adds flavour. He hands her the bowl and a large spoon. "Stir this."
She does as he says, with a bit too much vigour. Immediately, a plume of white powder explodes into the air, snowing onto the counter, the floor, and the front of her top.
"Carefully," he adds, too late, with a little smirk. She gives him an affectionate glare as she dusts the powder from her chest.
He starts adding other ingredients to a separate bowl. "An egg," he says, cracking a roundish object on the counter and separating the shell from the slippery innards, only keeping the latter. He pours a cup full of a liquid into the bowl. "Milk." He raises an eyebrow when she cringes. "Not a fan?"
She grimaces. "Lance showed Coran and I how he… retrieved milk from his friend, Kaltenecker."
"He milked that thing? …Just don't think about it. It'll taste good, promise."
He adds a few spoonfuls of a viscous, yellow liquid to the concoction—oil—and whisks the contents of the bowl until they've blended completely. He pours his bowl into hers and replaces the spoon in her hand with his whisk. "Now stir this. Carefully," he adds, with a hint of teasing. "Just until it's mixed."
She does as he says, combining the ingredients until the white streaks disappear. There are still small lumps when he says, "That's good."
"It's not smooth yet," she says.
"That's okay. If you over-mix it, they won't rise. Shiro likes them fluffy."
"You really do know what you're doing," she says.
He shrugs. "I don't have a big repertoire. I've had practice."
"Hm." She lifts a spoonful of the pale yellow batter. "Does this taste good?" She didn't spend a lot of time around the kitchen on the Castle, but when she was around, Hunk would sometimes let her lick the spoon.
"Not really," he says. He takes the last ingredient from the counter and tears open the bag. "But try these." He pours a few small objects into her hand, dark brown and teardrop shaped with flat bottoms. She pops them into her mouth, and oh. He smiles as her eyes go wide with delight. The sweet morsels melt in her mouth, smooth and velvety. He watches fondly as she savours the little drops of bliss.
"More?" she asks, when the last of it has vanished.
"We need them for the pancakes," he says, though shakes a couple more bits into her eager, outstretched hand before dumping the rest into the batter and stirring them in. "Chocolate chips," he says, giving them a name.
"I think I'm in love," she croons. The look he gives her is as soft and warm as the melted chocolate on her tongue.
He turns the old stove on and places a shallow pan over the coil burner, pouring a splash of oil onto the flat surface. She tilts her head in question when he doesn't do anything else. "Gotta wait for it to heat up," he says. "It kinda shimmers when it's hot enough."
She leans down and peers intently at it, waiting until the oil starts to glisten, quivering. "Oh! It's ready!" she exclaims.
"Alright. Now we just take some of this—" he takes a cup and scoops up some of the batter—"and pour it in here." It forms a perfect circle, moulded to the contours of the pan, and starts to sizzle. "Now wait for the bubbles. When they pop and stay open, we're gonna flip it."
She leans in again, watching carefully. Little bubbles form, then disappear, filling with batter again. They fill in more and more slowly, until the holes remain. "It's time!"
Taking the pan by the handle, he lifts it from the burner and shimmies it back and forth a couple times, before launching it into the air; he catches it with ease. The flipped cake is encrusted in a gorgeous golden-brown, dotted with pockets of molten chocolate. "Now we just wait for this side to cook, and…"
He grabs a large plate from the cupboard and flips it onto the centre. "That's it." He splashes a little more oil into the pan. Pivoting the handle in her direction, he says, "Your turn."
Her pancake half misses the pan when she flips her first attempt, but he's able to salvage it, shaking it back into the pan. Her second try makes it most of the way into the pan, and by the third, she has it down pat. They fall into an easy rhythm, pouring and flipping until the entirety of the bowl has been transformed into a towering stack of fluffy pancakes.
Keith pads to the bedroom, ever so silent over the wooden floor. After poking his head in, he gestures for Allura to come. She nods and digs through the cutlery drawer. She can't find sporks, so she settles for forks and carries the plate to the bedroom.
Shiro sits in the middle of the bed, leaning heavily against the headboard, legs tucked under the plush blanket. "Good morning," he says, with a soft smile. His eyes are tired—aren't they always, now—but they widen when he sees what Allura's carrying. "Are those—"
"Your favourite," Keith says, plopping down on the mattress and nestling into Shiro's side where he belongs.
Allura sets the plate in Shiro's lap, settling against him on his other side. Using a fork, she cuts a wedge out of the top of the stack and spears it. She brings the morsel up to Shiro's lips.
He takes a bite, chews, swallows. The sound he makes is the most beautiful note she's ever heard. "These are amazing," Shiro moans. "You made these?"
"Don't act so surprised," Keith says, nudging his shoulder. Grabbing a fork, he stabs another piece of pancake and brings it to Shiro's mouth. "Less talking, more eating."
"Mm, if you insist." Shiro accepts another forkful with a low, pleased hum.
Keith reaches across the bed to give Allura a bite. She gasps with delight: it's absolutely divine, light and fluffy with just the right amount of sweetness.
Yes, she could get used to this. Breakfast in bed with her two favourite people? It's not Altea, it's not the Castle, but it's exactly where she wants to be.