Abbie felt the sigh deep in her bones. It was a deep, heavy, pitiful sigh. A well-constructed sigh, comprised of a lethal combination of carbon dioxide and discontent.
And it wasn't hers.
"Holy crap, are you that bored?" she asks, setting her phone down on the coffee table with a decisive click.
Crane has the audacity to look somewhere between innocent and affronted. "I beg your pardon?"
"You keep sighing like someone shot your dog," she says. "Do you really need me to entertain you 24/7?"
He straightens his back and squares his shoulders before lifting that index finger of his. "I'll have you know that I was an only child—"
"That explains a lot," she mutters.
He stumbles over his rant for a second, then regroups and continues. "And I spent many a diverting hour wiling away the time on my own."
She purses her lips and quirks her head at him. "So what's with all the sighing then?"
"The lull between tribulations is always a trying time for me. I have nothing to research. No mysteries to unravel; no ancient language to decipher. It's rather…"
"Boring?" she pointedly supplies, raising her eyebrow at him.
He glowers.
They sit in silence for another thirty seconds before Abbie says, "I've been feeling like baking. Do you want to help me bake something?" She's having too much fun needling him to admit that she was feeling pretty bored herself. They don't need to do any shopping, the house is clean, there's nothing on TV, and it's a miserable day. She refuses to acknowledge a few of the… other ways they could spend their time on a rainy Sunday. No matter how frequent and insistent those thoughts are becoming.
Crane perks up, only too willing to participate in any activity she might suggest. "What were you thinking of baking?"
She stands, swinging her bare feet down from the couch. "You can pick. Anything you like, provided we have the ingredients on-hand. I am not going out in that mess."
"I am more than willing to venture out—"
"Crane."
"Very well," he agrees, and stands. He follows her to the kitchen.
Abbie reaches up into the cupboard for the appropriate cookbook binder, straining up on tiptoe until Crane sidles up behind her and plucks it down with no trouble at all.
"Thank you," she says. She secretly likes it when he does that, which is why she didn't bother going to get her stepstool.
He merely nods in response, then begins flipping through the binder. "Hmm," he comments, sounding interested.
"Oh yeah… haven't made those in a while though. Kind of fun," she says, looking over to see what recipe he is pondering. Actually that sounds pretty good.
He marks the page with his finger, then continues. Once he reaches the end, he flips back to the page he had marked, obviously not finding anything else that struck his fancy.
"Bagels it is then," she says, going to retrieve her stand mixer. She brings it to the island and plugs it in while he goes about gathering ingredients.
Crane places the flour and yeast beside the mixer. Abbie turns on the water, occasionally sticking her fingers under it to test the temperature.
"Do we have a thermometer?" he asks, opening drawers.
"For what?" she returns filling a measuring cup.
"To ensure the water temperature is correct. The recipe says 110 degrees," he answers, pointing to the page.
"Pssh, it's fine," she says, waving her hand. Then she sticks her finger in the water. "Yeah, this is fine."
He raises an eyebrow at her, then reaches for the sugar.
"Honey," she says.
"I beg your pardon?" he asks, nearly hitting his head on the overhead cupboard.
"I want the honey, not the sugar," she clarifies. "Darling," she adds, just to goad him.
"Very droll," he says. "But surely, the recipe calls for…"
"I like the flavor I get from honey," she explains.
He nods and puts the sugar back.
"We still need the sugar though," she says, trying not to laugh.
He huffs, pulls the sugar canister back out, then withdraws the salt and the little plastic bear full of honey.
"May I measure the flour into the bowl, or do you have alternate instructions for that as well?" he asks, hovering over her shoulder.
"Knock yourself out," she mildly replies, adding the honey and salt to her warm water.
Crane measures very carefully, and Abbie smiles at how hard he's trying. He learned the hard way that baking isn't exactly like cooking. He's gotten quite good at cooking, and loves to experiment, but when he tried the same extemporaneous tactics with some muffins, things didn't go so well.
So the fact that Abbie keeps deviating from the recipe is putting him in quite a state.
"The recipe calls for packets of yeast. You have a jar," he says, frowning. He picks up the jar and peers at the label. "Ah, there is an equivalency guide—"
"I've gotten too many packets with dead yeast in them to trust them anymore. Just use a tablespoon," she says, watching him read the side of the jar of yeast and mentally calculate how much he needs to make 2 packets' worth.
"According to my calculations based on these instructions, it should be four and one-half teaspoons, which is equivalent to a tablespoon and a half," he says.
"You only need one tablespoon," she repeats. "One time I made these and that was all I had left in the jar, so I decided to give it a whirl anyway. Turned out just fine."
He opens his mouth, then closes it and flips the set of measuring spoons in his hand from the teaspoon to the tablespoon.
Abbie tries not to notice (again) how large and nimble his hands and fingers are. She returns to stirring, trying to get the salt to dissolve as much as possible before the water gets too cool.
"Whenever you are ready, Lieutenant," he says, gesturing towards the bowl.
She nods and pours the water mixture into the flour and yeast, then lowers the top of the mixer into the bowl, locks it, and turns it on low.
"Three minutes," Crane declares, setting a timer.
Abbie just rolls her eyes. Then she decides to throw him another curve ball. "What kind of bagels do you want to make?"
"What?"
"Well, we can make plain bagels," she explains. "Or we can add stuff."
His eyes widen further. "Stuff?"
"Come on, man, you've been to Bagel Emporium," she presses.
"I think we should adhere to the printed recipe," he says, tapping the page. "Well, as much as we are currently able, now, considering you have already deviated," he peevishly adds.
"You don't want cinnamon raisin? Or… poppy seed? Chocolate chip?" she asks.
"Well… perhaps cinnamon raisin might do," he grudgingly allows.
She immediately goes to the spice rack and grabs the cinnamon. "I'll even use the good cinnamon," she says, showing him the little glass bottle with the label saying Vietnamese Cinnamon instead of the little plastic one with the orange label.
"Do we have raisins?" he asks, foraging in the pantry. "Ah. We do. Miss Mills!" he exclaims, turning around to see her indiscriminately dumping cinnamon into the bowl.
"What? We don't have a measurement for this," she says, then turns off the whisk just as the timer goes off. If he was wearing pearls, he'd be clutching them right now, and she has to hold back her laughter at the sight of him.
Crane silences the beeping timer, then sets the raisins on the island. "How do you know you have the right amount then?"
Abbie peers into the bowl. "It just looks right. See?"
He looks. He can't argue with her. The dough has a pleasing scattering of cinnamon speckles, looking rather like a snickerdoodle cookie. "Do we add the raisins now?" he asks while she begins measuring more flour.
"Yeah."
"I'm afraid to ask…"
"A nice handful," she says, smiling.
He groans, but complies, dumping a pile of raisins in on top of the first batch of flour. Then he pauses a moment, and adds just a little more. "I like raisins," he quietly admits.
She chuckles to herself, then attaches the dough hook. She turns the mixer on again. "I know," she says.
"Lieutenant, it isn't getting all the material," Crane comments, peering over the bowl.
"Give it time, man," Abbie says, leaning back against the counter. She crosses her arms in front of her, calmly waiting.
He eyes move of their own accord, flicking downward for a split second to the deep crease of her cleavage, pushed further together by her crossed arms. He looks away just as quickly, and his fingers fidget at his side as he looks back at the dough coming together. "Ah. I see," he quietly says, then turns the mixer off and raises the hook.
She steps forward and nudges him aside with her hip so she can add more flour. He nearly jumps out of his skin at the overly-familiar gesture. As he watches her scoop and dump, he realizes that there really is no such thing as "overly-familiar" between the two of them.
Well, almost.
He loves moments like this, when they are alone together, doing something normal, when he can see her happy and unarmed and relaxed. Unguarded. When he remembers his best friend and fellow Witness is not only a formidable force for good but also a very beautiful woman.
His fingers twitch again. He loves these moments, but they frighten him. Because it forces him to examine feelings he doesn't feel he has the right to have.
"Earth to Crane." Her voice brings him back from his reverie. Like always.
"Hmm?" he asks, looking down at her dear, curious face.
"Where did you go?" she softly asks. She raises her hand and rests it on his chest.
"I was right beside you, Lieutenant, as always," he answers, placing his hand over hers, engulfing it.
She snorts and rolls her eyes. "That's not what I meant. Never mind." She shakes her head, deciding it isn't important, sliding her hand out from under his to switch off the mixer again.
"It looks a trifle soft yet," he says, looking over her shoulder.
"Yeah, it needs a little more flour," she agrees, scraping the dough off of the hook with her fingers. "Still sticky."
A few minutes later, Abbie dumps the dough onto a large plastic cutting board on the counter.
"The recipe states—"
"I use the cutting board on top of the counter because it isn't as cold as the countertop," she explains, anticipating his interjection this time. "The stone of the countertop sucks all the heat out and makes it very difficult for the dough to rise."
"Ah. Yes. Of course," he replies, nodding, watching with fascination as she begins kneading the dough. "May I try?"
"Knock yourself out," she answers, patting the dough back into a nice mound.
Crane rolls up his sleeves and steps over while Abbie moves aside. He smashes the dough with his hands, just sort of randomly pushing and squeezing.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Crane!" Abbie exclaims, stopping him. "You don't need to kill it."
His hands still. "What am I doing wrong?"
"Weren't you watching me?" she asks.
He was, but clearly he was paying attention to her, not what she was doing. "Apparently I was not watching closely enough." He releases his death grip on the dough.
She sighs and moves back over. "Look: push away, then pull back and turn. Push away, then pull back and turn." She does the motion a few more times.
"I believe I have it," he declares.
She sprinkles a little more flour on the dough and board, then allows him to return. She watches as he slowly mimics what he saw her doing. After a few slow tries, he begins to find a rhythm, his massive hands and lean, muscular forearms working the dough on the board.
Abbie swallows and turns away, moving over a low cabinet, where she pulls out a large pot. I do not want to be bagel dough. I do not want to be bagel dough. She turns on the hot water and begins filling the pot, and glances back over at him. I do want to be bagel dough. Damn it all.
"That's good, Crane," she manages to say, not sure if she's stopping him because the dough is done or if she is done.
"That was quite enjoyable," he declares, brushing his hands together. "What next?" he asks, looking at the recipe. "Ah." He pulls a tea towel out of a drawer and covers the dough. Then he sets the timer for 15 minutes. "You did not stop me."
"Nope. You're good," she says, measuring a tablespoon of sugar into the pot of water, which is now on the stove.
"What is the purpose of the water and sugar?" he asks.
"You know how bagels have that nice chewy outside?" He nods. "That's what the water does. Something about gelatinizing the starches or something. Not quite sure what the point of the sugar is. Probably something chemical," she adds with a shrug.
"Fascinating," he replies. "What do we do while we wait for the dough to rest?"
"Wash dishes," she declares.
Once they finish cleaning up, Crane goes to the laptop and opens it.
"What are you doing?"
"I am Google searching the purpose of boiling the bagels," he answers.
"Okay then," Abbie remarks, then wanders away. When she returns five minutes later, he is watching YouTube videos of people kneading dough. She walks away again.
xXx
Fifteen minutes later, Abbie pulls a large butcher knife out of a drawer.
"Surely the dough won't put up that much of a fight," Crane comments.
"I like using this because it's big. It's not even very sharp anymore," she explains, then demonstrates by lightly pressing her thumb against the blade. "It's old and basically not good for anything but dividing dough."
"Indeed," he declares with a nod. He looks down at the recipe again. "It says we are to divide the dough into 12 pieces, and—oh." He stops reading when he sees that Abbie already has the dough divided into thirds and is working on splitting each third in half. "How do you know they are even?"
"I guess," she says, raising an eyebrow at him. "They don't have to be exact; this ain't a bakery."
"Hmm." He reaches down and begins arranging the balls of dough on the board into three neat rows of four.
"Couldn't handle it, huh?" she asks. When she's made these in the past, she has arranged them just as he has done, but this time she intentionally left them sort of haphazard, just to see what he would do.
"How do we shape them?" he asks, ignoring her question. He moves to read the instructions again.
"Like this." Abbie picks up a ball and rolls it between her palms to smooth it a bit. Then she flattens it into a disc and pokes her thumb through the middle.
"Hmm," Crane declares. "Would it not be simpler to roll it into a cylinder and connect the ends?"
"They don't stick very well," she answers, picking up another piece of dough. "Go on, try one."
He picks up a dough ball and goes about shaping it into a bagel, keenly aware of Abbie's eyes on him. Mischief strikes him, and after he pokes his thumb through the center of the disc, he spins the dough around his finger like a hula hoop.
Abbie laughs, exclaiming, "Crane!"
"Whoop!" The bagel almost launches itself from his finger, but he catches it in time, laughing. He sets it on the board. "Oh dear. The hole is rather large on that one."
"It'll be fine," she reassures him, patting his arm and leaving a light dusting of flour there.
They finish shaping the rest, cover, and set the timer again.
"What do we do now?" Crane asks.
"Preheat the oven and hope they rise enough in 20 minutes," Abbie answers, walking to the oven.
"Might they not?"
"They might not," she says, washing her hands. He follows suit, then regards her a moment.
"What then?" he asks.
"We wait longer," she tells him with a shrug.
xXx
The timer goes off, interrupting the chess game they started to pass the time.
"If you need to stay and continue pondering your move… no, wait a minute, I don't trust you. You gotta come," Abbie says, standing and plucking his sleeve.
"I beg your pardon! I do not cheat!" Crane protests, but obediently follows her to the kitchen. "But I do not want to miss this part."
She uncovers the bagels. They are plump and smooth and ready to go. "Excellent," she says. She takes the lid off of the pot of water that has been simmering and retrieves a wire straining spoon from a drawer.
"Seven minutes," he declares.
"Six," she counters, grinning up at him. "Makes the timing easier, since they need to be flipped halfway through." She starts picking up bagels and plopping them in the water, smiling when they bob to the surface. Once she has half of them in, she sets the timer for three minutes.
"Very well," he sighs, clearly resigned to comply with whatever her wishes are.
As always.
He hovers, leaning over her shoulder, watching as the bagels float on the surface of the simmering water. It's really not very exciting, but he will take any opportunity to be close to her. He slowly blinks as this realization dawns on him, but instead of making him back away, he turns his face just slightly, closing his eyes and quietly inhaling the intoxicating scent of her hair, telling himself he's not being creepy.
"Hey," she says, nudging him, and he startles. "Can you get two cookie sheets and some parchment paper?"
"Hmm? Oh. Of course," he answers, moving to retrieve the items.
She slowly takes a deep breath, then exhales. She needed to get him away from her for a minute. Between the hot stove in front of her and… him (she refuses to consider the possibility that he is hot) behind her, she was beginning to feel a little lightheaded. So much so that she had to stop herself from pressing her rear back against him.
The timer goes off, making her jump. She silences it, then begins flipping the bagels with her strainer.
Crane materializes behind her to watch as Abbie pokes the strainer against one side of each bagel, causing it to turn over. "They've grown more," he comments, noting there is almost no room left between the bagels now.
"Yep," she agrees. "You can do the next six."
"Excellent," he replies. She can hear the smile in his voice.
xXx
They return to their chess game while the bagels bake, Crane characteristically taking his time, thoughtfully pondering each nuance and implication of every possible move, his long fingers twitching even as they remain their hold on his chosen piece, loath to release it until he is absolutely certain.
The timer goes off just when it is Abbie's turn. She stands, almost carelessly moves her rook, then goes to the kitchen, leaving Crane flummoxed and sputtering.
He stares at the board for ten more seconds, then gets up and goes to the kitchen.
"Oh, those look lovely," he declares, again hovering behind her, looming over her. He reaches over to try to pick one up and she smacks his hand.
"Too hot yet!" she scolds, laughing. "You know better." She turns around, but he doesn't back away, and she has to tilt her head back to look up at him. "They'll probably be okay by the time you make your next move," she says.
"Hmm?" he absently asks.
"The chess game, Mr. Eidetic Memory?" she prompts.
"Oh. Right. Chess," he replies. His fingers fidget a moment and he shoves them behind his back before spinning on his heel and returning to the dining room and their game.
Abbie follows a moment later with two beers, setting one beside Crane while he ponders the board.
She watches as he absently reaches out for his bottle without looking, watching his fingers wrap around the bottle, then pause, tapping against the dark brown glass for a moment before lifting it to his lips.
She watches him lick the moisture from the beer off of his upper lip, then watches him set the bottle back down.
Then she quickly lifts her own bottle and takes a long drink, willing her eyes to look elsewhere. Damn it, Mills.
When she sets her bottle down, she is surprised to see him looking at her instead of the board. "What?" she asks.
"I've played my turn," he says, covering the fact that he was blatantly staring at her elegant neck with its flawless skin while she drank.
"Where?" she asks, furrowing her brows as she looks at the board.
He reaches out and touches the piece he moved with his fingertips.
"That was fast," she declares. Then she takes three seconds to think, moves a piece, and says, "Checkmate."
"What?" he exclaims, leaning over the board while she stands, laughing, and goes to the kitchen. "Curse you, Lieutenant!" he calls. Her answering cackle floats out to him from the adjoining room and he rises to join her. "Have they sufficiently cooled?" he asks.
"Yep," she says, already cutting one in half. "We'll split this one," she adds. "It's getting close to suppertime, and you promised me we'd have Thai food."
"Of course. We do not wish to ruin your appetite," he agrees, going to the fridge for some cream cheese.
"Especially not when there's peanut sauce involved," she says. "Do you like the top or bottom?"
"I beg your pardon," he returns, whirling around, cream cheese in hand. She shows him the two halves of the bagel, and her lips are pressed tightly together. He thinks she may actually be blushing, too. "Oh. I… have no preference," he awkwardly answers. "I shall take whatever you wish to give me."
Abbie merely blinks a few times, then hands Crane the bottom half before saying, "I like the top."
If their fingers brush when he takes the bagel from her, surely it is accidental.
They lean over the kitchen island, spreading cream cheese on their bagel halves, each suddenly, inexplicably, keenly aware of the other. Neither seems to know what to say, so they both simply bite into their snack.
Then Crane groans, and Abbie almost drops her bagel. Damn him. She looks up and sees he has cream cheese in his mustache. Without thinking, she reaches up to wipe it off.
He catches her hand in his, but instead of bushing it aside as he has done before, he sucks the bit of cream cheese off of her thumb, then kisses it. When she doesn't protest, he kisses the tips of her other fingers as well, his eyes locked on hers the entire time.
"Why aren't you stopping me?" he softly asks, kissing her palm now. Her fingers curl into his beard and his heart leaps.
"I don't want to stop you," she whispers, then sets her bagel half down. She takes his half out of his hand and lifts it to his lips, her other hand still resting on his cheek.
He obediently takes a bite, trying to be neat, but she pushes the bagel towards him at the last minute.
"Lieutenant!" he exclaims, but his protest dies as he sees her dear face coming closer. He even leans down to meet her, and is rewarded with the touch of her soft lips on his, the lightest flick of her sweet tongue as she licks the cream cheese from his upper lip.
He plucks the bagel from her hand and sets it on the counter beside hers so he can fully pull her into his arms. "Abbie, I…"
"Shh," she says, lifting up on tiptoe. "Just shut up for once," she whispers, her fingers threading into his hair.
As always, he heeds her words, dropping his head and kissing her fully, deeply, the way he has yearned for longer than he can remember.
When he finally lifts his head, he gazes down into her beautiful brown eyes and says, "We should bake more often."
