Dear Kavi, have the happiest of birthdays.
Sincerely, your muse.

. . . . .

December 15, 2012

It's for an assignment, he reminds himself as he steps into the classroom. The front bench is occupied by a rather temperamental looking man, while the others are spread with a variety of people and pieces of equipment. He's not the last person to this class, but he's not the first either.

A cooking class.

A damn cooking class.

This is the absolute last thing he ever expected to be doing for an assignment. Not that he minds. He's never really made cooking part of his life – kind of impossible considering no one really taught him growing up and he has no need to now – and he's pretty sure he's going to hate this class, but he's not here because he wants to be.

At least, until he meets Alie.

Alie is spring and fresh. They're partnered together on that first day and she's just as nervous as he is. She's doing it for fun, she tells him, because she needs to learn and she wants to be good at it. He lies, of course, though not entirely. He's doing this for his job, he says, and she assumes he's a chef. It's a great time to practice for his assignment.

His first instinct, when she invites him shyly for coffee, is to turn her down. No attachments. They're not good for him and he's not good for them. He's crap at keeping in touch and saying the right things to keep friends and relationships above water. He's okay with that. Plus, he can be an aloof bastard when he wants to be, no matter how shiny any once else is. He doesn't' know anything different.

They go for coffee.

She's happy, consistently, and he's shocked that it doesn't grate against his last nerve. He's already been through so much that he's already too aware of the darkness that floats about the world. Happy people bother him. He finds it naïve, mostly. Willful ignorance based on a lack of interaction with the things he sees. Maybe it's a bit of jealousy. But it doesn't matter. She brightens his day in that moment and every moment after that when he goes to that class. They go for coffee every time they have class and they talk for hours.

But as the class comes to an end, he knows he's about to disappear. He's been gently turning her away whenever she suggests anything more than coffee. He can't help it and he's good at it. He's had so much practice and he's excellent at making it sound like there's nothing he'd like more than to spend time with her, there's just so much going on.

The last time, though, the last class, their last coffee, he agrees. He follows her home, tells her it's because she promised him Croatian cookies. It's close enough, and he's told her he has relatives that still live there. Partial truth, the best way to create a backstory. It's one of the first things he'd told her. She looks shy as she leads him into her apartment. It's small and cozy and he has the best time that afternoon making the cookies.

It's the warmest he'd felt so very rarely as they worked on the cookies, laughed, joked. It's shockingly easy to fall into it with her. He wants to say it's too easy. When the cookies are in the oven, they sit on the couch and he weaves an epic tale about becoming a chef, about an influential woman in his life. She thinks it's his mother and he lets her. And when she asks if she can see him again, he has to tell her no.

He's going to Europe, he says, and he doesn't know when he'll be stateside again. He can actually hear her heart break. He closes his eyes and turns away from her, pacing to her front window. He explains why he was so reluctant, closes his eyes as he tells her lie after lie about a company that doesn't exist, about a family he used to dream about as a boy. He draws on years of a different kind of pain to cloak himself in as he turns and apologizes.

He leaves before the cookies are done.

Years later, when he's just finished looking an arms dealer in the gun and cannot for the life of him calm down, he goes to a bookstore. He spends hours scouring the bookshelves for a recipe and when he finds it, he takes it home. He spends all night making cookies, hundreds of them, and sneaks them into the office the next day. No one knows, but those moments, those hours, stirring, measuring, kneading, remind him of sunshine and happiness, naïve as it was.

And it makes him feel better.

. . . . .

Baking.

Actual baking.

Legitimate, actual, proper baking.

Nothing from a tin, container, or bag.

From scratch, no holds barred, real, actual, proper baking.

Hetty's out to kill them.

At least, that's the general explosion that occurs in the bullpen as everyone files in that morning. None of them admit to being cooks, let alone half decent bakers, and the idea that they then have to share their creations with the team puts them all on edge. It's guilt and embarrassment. No one wants to fail and everyone knows they will.

On the surface.

Callen is different.

It's not that he doesn't like to cook or bake. It's not that he can't. He definitely has the ability, in spades. He's an insomniac and he's constantly on the move. He'd taken a course years back for a case and most of it had stuck. To him, it's kind of like assembling a gun. Put everything in the right place, at the right time, and ensure all of the bonding agents are in place. It's easy. And he's damn good at it.

Everyone else looks absolutely panicked. Even Sam, who could easily get Michelle's help, looks like he's a fish out of water. It would entertain him if it didn't scare him. He doesn't relish being poisoned by Deeks and the detective had been more than happy to share the story of Kensi's 'baking' attempt while undercover in suburbia. Even Nell looks a little worried and they all know how family-oriented the analyst is. But Eric seems to have Nell well in hand so his attention turns to the rest of his team.

"She won't know," Deeks is saying, and it doesn't take a genius to realize he's talking about Hetty. "Right?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "This is Hetty we're talking about."

"She'll know," Kensi agrees, and he can see the way she's weaving her fingers together anxiously. "I'm useless in a kitchen."

Something tugs at him with her words. He'd gone home with the memory of his mouth on hers firmly in his mind, unable to think of anything else while he attempted to overcome the insomnia, if only for a couple of hours. He'd even broken about nine of his own rules when he'd sent her a text at the ungodly hour he'd made it into the office.

Sun's up. Where are you?

He'd gotten a half coherent angry text back, but it had made him smile. She made him smile, and there's something about the idea that she is unable to cook, that he can cook for her, that pokes at the ice his heart calls home.

"Well," Deeks pipes up with a charming smile that is suddenly grating on Callen's nerves. "Come by mine. We'll fail together."

"Yes, because there's nothing I'd like more than having you mock me for my inability to not burn a cookie," she snarks back, but under that is a layer of truth. Anxiousness, worry, peevishness that Callen finds bothers him. There's no way just a kiss could change so much, is there?

But it has and they both know it. The tentative smile she'd given him when she'd stepped into the bullpen; the gentle way she brushed a hand across his shoulders as she headed to the coffee maker; the wink he'd sent her as she climbed the stairs ahead of him for a briefing before Hetty's bombshell. It's all different. They're all changes. Not bad changes, he doesn't think, but changes nonetheless. Changes that make him warm and, he kind of hopes, leaves her with a mysterious shine to her being.

"Awe, come on, Kens! I won't mock if you won't."

Her hackles rise. It's almost a visible thing. "I'd rather burn my kitchen down. It could use renovating."

"Burn mine down first," Callen finds himself offering. It's nonchalant in front of the team, but he finds he means it. He thinks he'd enjoy having her in his space, learning a skill that he has and she doesn't. Those are slim. After all, they work the same job. There are few things he could teach her. But this, he wants to, reasoning be damned.

There's a spark in her eye, even as she scoffs. "I think you can handle that on your own."

He puts a hand to his heart, as if wounded, but he knows he's planted a seed. Now he just has to wait, to bide his time.

But by the end of the day she looks so exhausted that he doesn't extend the offer again. Instead, he lets her head home and does the same himself. She'll find something, he knows, even though he's a little disappointed. But there's no pressure with them, there's not supposed to be pressure, regardless of the fact that he wants to see her, wants to spend time with her and wants her in his space.

And that's a hell of a thing to get his head around.

He's surprised when there's a knock and she's on the other side. The surprise must show, because her beaming smile dims, just a little.

"I- I just assumed that- I mean you said-" She centers herself, taking a deep breath. "Was the offer genuine?"

He just steps back in response, letting her in. He's already pulled everything out, a recipe he now knows because of a long-ago happy memory, and his kitchen looks a bit disastrous. For a man so rigid in everything he does, he's a spectacularly chaotic cook.

"Wow."

He's actually self-conscious. It's a unique feeling, one he is most definitely not used to. Sure, this is, in some ways, his element, but the absolute shock on Kensi's face doesn't make him feel the greatest about the secret he's just revealed.

"This isn't just cookies."

He shrugs. "Medenjaci," he says, the word rolling off his tongue. "Croatian honey spice cookies."

She stands in the doorway to his kitchen, looking over the scattered goods on his counters. "Callen, this is nuts."

His hands slide into his pockets. He doesn't honestly know what to say. This is closer than anything he's ever told her, his heart and a sanctuary for him in the dark hell that is what they do and see day to day. He forces himself to step around her after a moment, saying, "Just walnuts."

It breaks the ice because she glares, no menace in the narrowing of her eyes. "Cute." Then she sheds her coat, draping it over the only kitchen chair he owns. For the first time, his lack of furniture bothers him. It hadn't when she'd shown up at his door, chocolate egg in hand, nervous and curious. He almost growls to himself, hating how self-conscious he feels. This is Kensi, he knows Kensi. So he forces himself to step over to the counter, reaching for the butter.

"Come on. I'll show you."

. . . . .

Kensi hates him a little right now.

In fact, more than a little. He's so confident, he's so… normal. And she feels like she's losing it inside. A kiss. A freaking kiss, and everything changes. She feels it, she thinks. Still, she steps up beside him, because there's nothing else she can do. She's here to learn about baking cookies, about how to make them, what to do. She can't bake worth a crap and she needs this. They both know it.

"Okay." She rolls up her sleeves. "Where do we start?"

"Heat the butter," he says. "With the sugar and honey."

He reaches past her, brushing her arm entirely without intention. Her heart jacks up and she hates it. Her eyes flutter closed and she's a teenaged girl with sweaty hands and a pounding heartbeat. She curses herself and curses him because it shouldn't be like this. There's no supposed to be any pressure, there's not supposed to be any of this worry or concern over all the things going on between them and around them.

"How much? How do you even know?"

He laughs a little, and there's a confident smirk on his face. Then he taps his temple. "A cup of butter."

He very carefully coaches her through every step, letting her do most of the work, subtly correcting her mistakes – and yes she notices.

"You've done this before," she says as she helps him divide and roll the dough.

They haven't spoken much, with the exception of his instructions, just dropped into the easy rhythm that makes them work well together undercover. It's funny, she kind of thinks, that she and Callen can fall into the rhythm so easily when she and Sam, though they're rarely partnered, have to take some time to get used to each other again. It's always just been easy with Callen.

Her heart clenches at the thought. Easy. It shouldn't be easy. Not now, not after The Kiss, not now that they've actually spoken about what that means, about what they mean. In a totally Kensi-and-Callen way, of course, but she's not the type to really talk about her feelings and certainly not to Callen. It's not like Callen's very forthcoming with that kind of information either, and yet…

"I find it therapeutic," he says, voice slow.

Her eyes fly to his, and while his are definitely guarded, it's a guardedness she's very familiar with. He wants to trust her. He may not even realize how vulnerable it makes him, how vulnerable he's trying to be. She never realizes it until she's spoken, until the secret's out in the air and she's waiting for the judgment to fall.

"Most people do," she offers quietly. She swallows. "How long?"

He shrugs. He can't remember how long. After a while, all the missions blur together and all he has are pieces. He remembers Alie, it's the time that's slid by faster than he can keep track. He's been in the game too damn long to be able to tell it all apart anymore.

She waits until they've put the first batch in the oven, starting to clean up because she's full of an odd nervous energy. "Jack had a grandmother, on his mother's side."

"Most people do."

She's unfazed by the remark, which is unsettling in itself. How far have they come that she barely acknowledges his snark now? She knows what he's trying to say, that he's trying to push the conversation forward. She shouldn't like it, but it makes a piece of her smile.

"She had a shortbread recipe," she goes on. "Jack and I held Christmas in LA once. Just once. Jack was absolutely adamant about making the damn cookies." She laughs, then turns, her hands on the counter, elbows bent. She considers hoisting herself onto the counter. "I cannot bake. I can't. If you left, right now, I'd burn every single one of those cookies. Every one. Even with a timer. It's a curse."

He leans back against the fridge, a small piece of his mind terribly content about the comfortable way she's standing in his kitchen. He toys with the idea of hoisting her up and stepping between her knees and discards it. He's not even sure he wants to go there. Kensi's different, after all, and he doesn't want to push it beyond where they're capable of going. Even if he still has the phantom taste of her on his tongue.

"Jack didn't listen," she goes on. "We must have baked dozens. None of them were ever perfect. None of them were close." She laughs now, but remembers the traumatic horror of the time. "Jack was a mess; I was a mess. And you know the first thing his grandmother asked for?"

He grins.

"The damn cookies," she agrees, finally deciding to hoist herself up to the counter. She swings her legs for a beat, a soft smile on her face. "And Jack, God love him, could not tell her that we couldn't do it. I'd only met the woman the year before and here I am, explaining that neither of us are bakers. To an old country grandmother. I must have been such a disappointment."

She doesn't look unhappy, so he doesn't correct her.

"The next day, she pulls me aside while Jack's got all the males in his family on a basketball court. I hated being there with the women. I never really fit in. But his grandmother pulled me into our tiny little kitchen and walked me, step by step, through baking her shortbread."

"And?"

Kensi blushes now, and he can feel his pulse jack up. Adorable is not a word he associates with her, but it's a shy embarrassed blush that makes him want to wrap her up in his arms.

God, this whole thing was a bad idea.

She laughs a little. "I tried to make them again, a couple months later. Tried being the operative word."

He offers her a smile, unable to keep himself from stepping towards her, from reaching out to rest his hands on her knees. It's probably one of the least intimate things he's done all evening, but it feels like more.

"I burnt most of them," she says, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "I even called her."

He laughs, low and throaty. Her throat bobs and his eyes are drawn to it, even as his fingers doodle random patterns just above her kneecaps and his feet push him forward, just slightly. "Hopeless."

"Entirely," she agrees and her eyes flick down to his mouth. It's a bad idea, pushing this, and she knows it. But, she's woman enough to admit, even if it's only to herself, that she wants it.

The timer beeps when his mouth is a breath from hers and she feels his exhale against her lips. It makes her smile and laugh humourlessly as he pulls away. It's a moment ruined and it isn't until they've packed the cookies for the morning and she's just sliding on her coat that he corners her against the door.

It feels impulsive and spontaneous and so, so good as he unapologetically plunders her mouth. She gives as good as she gets, this kiss better than the last and instead of pulling away when the kiss comes to a shockingly natural end, he slides a hand to the small of her back, pressing her closer.

"Her name was Alie," he tells her, his eyes still closed and breath still ragged.

Her hands float to his face, thumbs brushing his temples. "She was special."

When his eyes open she sucks in a deep breath because what he wants to say is written there clear as day.

So are you.

And it feels like there's no going back.


I'm fudging the recipe. Big time. The one I found says you have to leave the dough 1-3 days. I don't have time for them to wait 1-3 days! So pretend it's a really weird cooking show where the dough is magically pre-prepped? Thanks.

While you're at it, and it pains me to have to write this, any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Please let them be. Either I'll catch them in a read over in future and if they irk me enough, change them, or they're just going to be quirks of the chapter. I'm not perfect, I write fanfiction for fun, so there's going to be mistakes. Thanks.

Also, I completely understand if you think at least some of this is OOC. After conversations and deliberations, I've come to two conclusions about writing Callen in any domestic situation:

1) he will always be OOC. Nature of the beast. Because the closest thing we've ever seen to domestic Callen are the flashes we get when he's on a case, it's always going to be weird to see him as anything other than an agent.

2) writing self-consciousness, even when you know it's all in his (their) head, is hard!. Like seriously difficult!

AND AND AND! I worked hard! Because this needed to be done today. It's my birthday. And I really really super like posting on my birthday. It makes me happy to know I've done and completed something I love on my birthday.

Even if it took on a whole life of its own and stuff. I do love your patience, and your reviews, and all of the little comments I get that make each review personal and special, even though this is a Christmas fic and it's May. I love you all. And TwilightPony21 in particular for dealing with the insanity that is me and this fic. You are a godsend and a darling.