"It's three fourths," John insists, scowling dubiously at the measuring cup.
"John, I'm looking at the recipe right now. It definitely says two thirds."
"The hell's the difference," John grumbles, but he tips some of the flour back in the bag and folds the top over haphazardly. "All right, what's next?"
Dorian concentrates, his temple flaring blue. "Eggs."
"Damn." John can't remember if he still has any in the fridge and he goes over to check, brushing his hands impatiently on his apron as he crosses the kitchen. "We're down to two," he calls out, staring into the contents of the refrigerator. "Is that enough?"
"Should be."
John pulls the eggs out and turns around to see Dorian watching him, hands tucked in the large pockets of his own baby pink apron. It's a matching Kiss the Chef set he won at the annual department Dirty Santa the year before, so ugly that he kept them just for the sake of having a laugh to himself now and then, but...somehow, it doesn't look half bad on Dorian.
"Remind me again," Dorian says, "why you're attempting to do something you're clearly unsuited for."
John sets the eggs down in a separate container, looks around for a clear space to set it down in, and ends up balancing it precariously between the mixing bowl and the corner of the counter. "It's for Marty," he says shortly, and reaches up to wipe his forehead with his hand before he catches himself and scowls down at the flour still clinging to his fingers. "Like I said."
"Marty Pelham?" Dorian asks mildly, reaching over to move the eggs to a safer position by the sink. "What about his mom?"
"She's got work. It's his birthday tomorrow, D, sue me for trying to do something good for the kid." John picks up the mixing spoon grimly. "What's next?"
"Flour, in the bowl. With the water." Dorian looks on as John tries to follow his instructions with limited success. "You know, for someone who's defused a bomb from around his own neck, you're surprisingly inept at this. It's just science."
"Science, my ass." John stabs at the contents of the bowl aggressively. "You could help, you know," he adds irritably. "You're the one with the damn recipe."
Dorian takes the bowl from him with a prolonged sigh, tucking it easily in the crook of his arm as he proceeds to stir effortlessly. "You're too nice a guy sometimes, John."
"Am not," John responds automatically, picking up the measuring cup holding the sugar. "Now?"
Dorian tips the bowl towards him and John empties the cup onto the growing clump.
"I just know the feeling, is all," John says. "Every kid deserves at least a cake on their birthday." He suddenly feels uncomfortable under Dorian's scrutiny and turns away, busying himself with the suddenly daunting task of cracking the eggs.
"Oh, this is a cake?"
John snorts and hits the egg against the countertop a little too hard, splattering it all over his hand. "Ah, damn it..." He hastens to scoop as much as he can into the bowl, wincing as he catches sight of more than one speck of eggshell. "Those are edible, right?"
"Adds calcium," Dorian says gravely. "Here, give me that." He releases the spoon and gestures expectantly for the surviving egg, which John drops into his palm resignedly.
"Probably shouldn't have tried, huh," he muses, pulling out one of the stools with his foot and planting himself on it in time to see Dorian crack the egg one-handed. "You think the store's still open?"
"No, I'm glad you did," Dorian tells him. He pauses to offer the spoon to John.
John eyes it warily. "There's eggs in that. Isn't there something you can get from eating raw eggs like that?"
"I'm certified in CPR," Dorian says smoothly, and prods at John's face with the spoon until John reluctantly opens his mouth. The wooden spoon slides over his lower lip, and he suspects that Dorian lingers there a second longer than he has to before withdrawing.
"How is it?" Dorian asks, still watching him.
John hesitates, rolling the taste around his mouth. "It's sweet," he says after a moment, running his tongue over the corner of his mouth to catch the last of the batter. "Really sweet. You think-"
"He'll love it," Dorian tells him firmly, returning to his stirring. "Trust me."
John looks at him, frowning slightly down at the bowl in his bright pink apron with the cross-stitched words across the front, a streak of white flour in his hair that's gone unnoticed so far, and he finds himself inexplicably smiling. "Yeah."