AN: Sorry it's short, guys, but hopefully y'all like it anyway! Bioware owns our friendly neighborhood Broodmeister, and while I've never actually tried this waffle recipe, I take credit for it. Enjoy!

Fenris frowns over a mug of (terrible) coffee as I step into the kitchen. "I see you in your pajamas all the time," he points out. "Have I erred in some way?"

I give him a lopsided smile over a stack of measuring cups and ingredients. I flip through Gran's antique copy of Joy of Cooking (the one that has recipes for things like bear and raccoon) and find the recipe for waffles. "Don't sweat it, babe," I reply. "It's a generational thing—according to Gran, you shouldn't see me in my nightclothes unless we're—you know." I trail off uncertainly, suddenly aware of how close I am to very complicated territory. He leans one hip against the counter, and to my everlasting horror I feel a blush creep up the back of my neck under the weight of his gaze, green and bright as fresh grass.

"Unless we're what?" he prompts curiously.

"You know—together," I answer lamely. My hand jerks spastically, spreading flour across the countertop. I scoop the fine white particles into the sink and dust off my hands on my jeans (a promise is a promise, after all). I focus on the blurry handprints as I vaguely flutter one hand in the empty space between us. "Like, together."

"Lovers, you mean," he says bluntly. He very carefully avoids my gaze, and I feel somewhat vindicated when I notice the swoop and taper of his ears is turning pink. "So I have erred."

"No—I don't care if you see me in my pajamas," I hasten to reassure him. "It doesn't mean we're l-lovers (I stumble slightly over the word and all it implies). It's just—it's just easier, to do what Gran says. Here, at least." When he doesn't look convinced, I set my coffee cup aside and step as close as I dare. "We're friends, Fenris," I insist. "It doesn't have to be any more complicated than that. Pajamas or no pajamas." He blinks dazedly, and I realize exactly what I might have just said. "Shit. I mean—"

"I know what you meant," he interrupts hurriedly, lips twitching. The quicksilver smile fades swiftly, though, and is replaced with a contemplative frown. "So—so is it customary here, to kiss one's friends?" he asks hesitantly. One eye peeks out from under the fringe of snowy hair. And his ears have gone from pink to ember-red. "Or one's attackers, come to that."

Shit. I'd been holding onto the hope he'd somehow missed that.

Girl, please. He notices when you make the coffee stronger than usual. I give up on double-checking the number of eggs the recipe calls for (after the quintuple-check) and slowly spin to face him. "Not customary, no," I answer. My voice sounds about an octave and a half too high. "But I didn't have any cold, sludgy coffee to hand, so." I shrug, as if to encompass the inevitability of kissing as the next logical step in self-defense. "And I wouldn't call it a kiss," I mutter rebelliously. "More just a—bumping of mouths."

"Where I'm from, that is a kiss," he observes, too keenly for my tastes. "Though it—ah—lasts longer. Usually."

I watch him tap his fingers nervously against the side of his mug—he's fidgeting. He never fidgets. "I don't know how to resist you. Fight you," I amend hastily. "I know one or two tricks for your garden variety thug—Emmett taught me. But any time you and I—uh—get into it, you have me on the floor before I even remember I know anything about fighting."

"So naturally, you counter-attack with beverages and seduction," he drawls. But he's stopped fidgeting.

"Hey, whatever works," I retort, but it lacks heat. "Listen—call it a kiss if you want. But I don't think it counts." I must be getting better at reading his non-verbal cues, because all it takes is a twitch of his eyebrow to keep me babbling on inanely. "A kiss—the way I see it, I mean—it's something both people involved should want. Should be able to-to experience. And since you were mostly asleep and kind of stuck in a bad dream at the time—"

"It doesn't count?" he surmises. His lips twitch upward, and stay there this time. "Well. It's clear I must teach you to fight. And perhaps the next time we bump mouths, you'll have my full attention."

Did he just-? Oh dear God, he DID. How many eggs go in waffles again? I feel like I'm back underneath him, trapped in a vacuum of mostly fear, and a little bit want. More want, now. For now, I want to keep him smiling. "Wanna try something crazy?" I ask mischievously.

He laughs, and it is the best sound in the world—it makes me think of s'mores, minus the graham cracker. "Tell me something, amica," he chuckles. "What could possibly still be crazy to you?"

I grin back at him, totally taken in by how good happy looks on him. How easy and real and so damn cute it makes him. At my direction he grabs the leftover pumpkin pies out of the refrigerator and scoops the filling into a bowl. With both of us on the hunt, we manage to find an unopened bag of butterscotch chips (expiration date: Armageddon). Mixed with a little milk and butter, they melt into a respectable syrup-like consistency. He finds a skillet and neatly arranges bacon in it, and the perpetual hunch in his posture straightens proudly when he spins the dial on the stove to "On", independent of direction or assistance. I beat the pie filling into the waffle batter with a large fork, and ladle the mixture onto the hot, oiled iron.

We split the first waffle, anxious to discover howit turned out. "So this is crazy?" Fenris asks, scooping the melt-y, butterscotch-y syrup into his mouth with a four-by-four square of waffle.

"Yup," I reply happily, and meaning something else entirely. "Totally and completely bonkers."