Baking
...
Sunday 2nd December
That the kitchen smells of spices is the first thing Boyd registers. The second is that she's standing at the counter mixing something in a bowl, wearing an apron and a smudge of flour across her nose. His fingers itch to wipe it away.
"What are you doing?" he ambles in and leans against the fridge, watching curiously.
"Baking," is the vague answer. She sprinkles something into the bowl, stirs some more, frowns and adds another handful of mystery ingredient.
"I can see that," he replies slowly, with a great deal of long-suffering patience. He gets no response; she's concentrating on pouring whatever it is she's now adding to her mixture. "It's Sunday morning, Grace," he murmurs, stepping up behind her as she puts the container down and resumes stirring. "Early on Sunday morning."
"Not that early," she tells him, nodding to the clock. "I was awake. You weren't. I thought I'd get this started."
His arms wrap around her waist from behind, hugging her firmly against his body. He lowers his head, delicately kisses the side of her neck. He feels her hum with pleasure, tilt her head back against his shoulder as her eyes slide shut and he grins, shamelessly intent on distracting her.
Until he catches a glimpse of the other ingredients scattered across the counter.
"What are you making?" he asks, suddenly a lot more interested in what she's doing.
"Fruit cake," she mumbles, leaning further back into him, relishing the warm, solid weight of him.
"Oh, well, in that case I'll leave you alone to finish what you're doing," he tells her, letting go and stepping back.
Grace's fruit cake is the stuff of legend in the CCU bunker. Nothing like the typical dry, boring concoction usually expected when the festive season rolls around, hers is moist, packed with a mix of subtle flavours and chock full of delicious fruit and nuts. No disgusting marzipan either.
"What?" she turns, regarding him with an expression that is filled every bit as much with confusion as it is with irritation. He gestures toward the work surface.
"Far be it from me to interrupt the production of your fruit cake," he tells her, giving her an easy grin. Frowning as she turns away from him, she gives the bowl of dry ingredients a final stir, and then starts to clear the counter, putting boxes and containers of materials away in their respective cupboards.
"You're not giving up are you?" he asks, observing from the other side of the room where he is making coffee as she picks up the dishcloth and wipes the surface.
Grace shakes her head. "Of course not. There's just nothing else I can do at the moment; the fruit needs to soak first." He stares at her, a very attentive and inquiring look suddenly clearly visible in his eyes again.
"Really?"
"Yes."
He puts his mug down, crosses him arms. "And how long does that take?" he wants to know.
"Oh, quite a while," she shrugs, apparently indifferent. He raises an eyebrow, takes a step forward. She leans back against the counter, entirely casual.
"A while?" She nods and he takes another step closer. "How long is a while Grace?" She looks up at him – she has to – because he's right in front of her now.
"Oh, several hours," she tells him, apparently trying hard to maintain her disinterested tone. His hands are resting on the edge of work surface on either side of her, effectively pinning her to the spot.
"I see," he murmurs, staring right into her eyes.
He rests his palm against her cheek, slowly brushing his thumb across her nose and wiping away the flour. "And had you planned on doing anything while you wait?" he wants to know, his tone deliberately very low, very deep. He's still gazing at her, dragging the moment out.
Grace reaches up, wraps her arms around his neck and stands on tiptoe. "Absolutely nothing," she whispers very softly into his ear.