"It's just a cake." Artie hadn't meant it as an insult, merely a comment, an opinion. But somehow it had gotten a handful of the gooey dough thrown at him. And so, as he licked his fingers clean with a playful glare, a messy handful of his own hit her square in the chest. Soon enough they were laughing and throwing and smearing, more dough decorating the kitchen walls than themselves.
—
"Q, what are you doin'?" He sat, somewhat confused, as Quinn approached, holding what seemed to be.. an apron. Eyes widening with alarm, he held his hands up in defense. "I am not wearin' that, girl." It was awful, to say the least, printed with alternating pink and green cupcakes, red ties meant to be worn in some girlish bow. Eyebrows raised daringly, she lifted the apron higher, a delicately innocent smirk painted on her lips. A fearful shake of his head- for he didn't want to lose that last shred of dignity just yet- was followed by a quick roll back, chair colliding into the counter behind him as she teasingly moved closer.
That was probably where it started, he figured. His desire to make up the atrocious garment he now had on. And so, with a smirk of his own, he plucked the recipe from her fingertips with a disdainful flourish. It was an incredibly complicated recipe, demanding that layer upon layer be made and dyed different colors. Not that it wasn't pretty; it just seemed like a whole lot of trouble for, well, just another cake. But Quinn was nothing if not determined.
And so they worked, tossing ingredients back and forth, mixing messily, and hoping that they were doing it somewhat correctly. Probably not, though. He could only hope that her desire to make this perplexingly difficult concoction and his desire to, quite simply, please her weighed out their inability to bake. With a nervous grimace, the first of many trays had just been placed into the oven when his fatal remark was uttered.
"Just a cake, Artie Abrams? Just a cake?" she questioned, a dangerously cute look on her face, "This is not some random baked good. This.. This elegant masterpiece is a work of art." It was his amused eye roll that did it, though. Because just then, a rather large handful of goo smacked him square in the chest.
His shirt, previously a light shade of teal, was now the purplish color gotten from mixing many shades of Playdoh together. He glanced down at it, then up at the walls, and at her. It was pretty obvious which he wanted to clean off first. And so, with one eyebrow raised in amusement, he carefully swiped his finger along her cheek, sucking the moist dough off of his finger with a pop. "It's pretty good," he shrugged, puppy dog eyes wide, as she gaped at him. "And, uh.. You have a bit right.. here," he pointed, finger barely skimming the corner of her lip. She reached up instinctively to wipe it with her already soiled sleeve, but his hand stopped her. Or, more accurately, his lips did. Because the fact that their hands were now clasped together was the last thing on her mind at the moment.
—
Sitting, probably a bit closer than necessary, at the kitchen table, they eyed the burnt cake in front of them. It was disappointing, he thought: not that he'd admit it, but he was looking forward to trying the cake. And, well, wiping goo off the walls wasn't really what he had pictured his afternoon as, to be honest. But as he leaned over to softly kiss her again, he decided that this was much, much better.