The kitchen is bustling! Next on the menu is a House Special for Day 19, featuring the Vice-Dorm Leader of Heartslabyul, Monsieur Trey Clover.
There is no one better suited for a theme involving a rich, creamy, and technically difficult beverage. To Trey, "Eggnog" is not that yellow sludge you buy in a carton; it is a custard. It is a science. And sharing it with you? That is just sweet.
The kitchen has prepared this Manager's Specialty Pasta with a side of freshly grated nutmeg. We do hope this "House Special" is to your satisfaction!
Theme: Eggnog
"Put that down."
You froze, your hand hovering over the refrigerator door handle in the Heartslabyul kitchen. You slowly turned around to find Trey Clover leaning against the counter, a towel slung over his shoulder, looking at you with a mix of amusement and professional offense.
"I was just..." you started, holding up the carton of store-bought eggnog you had found. "I wanted a glass."
"That," Trey said, walking over and gently taking the carton from your hand, "is not eggnog. That is yellow sugar-water with thickener. If you want eggnog, we do it right."
He set the carton aside (likely to be fed to Ace later) and rolled up his sleeves.
"Sit," he instructed, nodding to a stool. "Watch and learn."
Watching Trey cook was always relaxing. He moved with an economy of motion that was mesmerizing. He pulled out eggs, cream, milk, sugar, and whole nutmeg.
"The trick," Trey explained, cracking eggs and separating the yolks with one hand, "is patience. You have to cook the custard slowly. If you rush it, you get scrambled eggs. If you ignore it, it burns."
He whisked the yolks and sugar until they were a pale, creamy yellow. Then, he moved to the stove, heating the milk and cream. The kitchen began to smell warm and sweet, a stark contrast to the winter night outside.
"Come here," he said softly.
You hopped off the stool and stood next to him at the stove.
"This is the dangerous part," he murmured. "Tempering. Pour the hot milk into the eggs... slowly. Whisk constantly. Don't stop."
He guided your hand on the whisk. His larger hand covered yours, warm and steady. You worked together, pouring and mixing, creating a smooth, rich liquid that thickened beautifully.
"Perfect," Trey praised, his voice right by your ear. "You've got the touch."
He poured the mixture back into the pot, stirring until it coated the back of a spoon. Finally, he removed it from the heat, stirred in a splash of vanilla, and poured it into two mugs.
"The finishing touch," he said. He took a microplane and grated fresh nutmeg over the top. The scent was intoxicatingāspicy, earthy, and sweet.
He handed you a mug.
"Cheers," he smiled, clinking his mug against yours.
You took a sip. It was incredible. Rich, velvety, not too sweet, and warming all the way down. It tasted nothing like the carton.
"Wow," you breathed. "Okay. You win. This is way better."
Trey chuckled, taking a sip of his own. He leaned against the counter, watching you enjoy his creation. His eyes crinkled at the corners.
"I'm glad," he said. "I like making things for people who appreciate the difference."
He reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.
"You've got a mustache," he teased softly.
You blushed, moving to wipe it away, but he caught your hand.
"Leave it," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "It's cute. Merry Christmas, [....]."
A "dish" served with patience, cream, and a dash of spice! The kitchen is pleased to present this House Special.
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SUMMARY:
A lazy weekend turns into a cozy little project when you and John Walker decide to build a gingerbread house just to fend off boredom.
The weekend stretches out like warm taffy, slow and sticky and determined to be absolutely useless.
You're sprawled on the couch in one of John's old gray hoodies that you stole from him, legs tangled in a throw blanket, staring at the ceiling like it might offer entertainment if you squint hard enough.
John sits at the other end with a protein bar he's clearly not hungry for, rotating it between his fingers like he's trying to will it into becoming something fun.
"This is it," you say, voice dramatic. "This is how we die. Not in a blaze of glory. Justā¦ slowly. By boredom."
John's mouth twitches. "I've survived worse."
"Name one."
He looks around the living room, then deadpans, "This conversation."
You toss a pillow at him. He catches it with one hand like he's catching incoming fire, utterly unbothered, which is rude of him.
A beat passes.
His eyes flick to you. "There's a gingerbread house I bought last time my son was here... we could built that."
You blink. "Are youā¦ trying to fight me?"
"I'm trying to save you," he says, solemn as a man delivering a mission briefing. "Before you start narrating your own tragic downfall again."
You sit up. "Okay. Fine. But if it looks like a war crime, I'm blaming you."
John rises from the couch with the purposeful stride of someone about to enter hostile territory. "I'll accept that burden."
He returns from the kitchen with a boxed gingerbread kit tucked under his arm like a field manual. The box is obnoxiously cheerful, all cartoon frosting swirls and perfect little windows. It's so optimistic it feels like it's mocking you.
You take it from him and squint at the picture. "This is a lie."
"It's a goal."
"It's propaganda," you correct, and tear the box open.
Ten minutes later, the coffee table's been converted into a sugar coated construction site. There's a plastic tray. There are brittle gingerbread panels. There's a piping bag filled with icing that looks like it was engineered by someone who hates hands.
John reads the instructions with the intensity of a man disarming a bomb.
"You're taking this way too seriously," you observe.
His eyes don't leave the paper. "I don't lose to baked goods."
You snort. "It's not baked goods. It'sā¦ pre baked architecture."
John finally looks up. The way he does it makes your stomach do that little inconvenient flutter like it's trying to get involved. His gaze slides over you, slow and deliberate, and you feel the warmth of it like a hand at your waist.
"Architecture," he repeats. "So you're saying it needs a strong foundation."
You narrow your eyes. "Are you flirting with me over structural integrity?"
"Is it working?"
You lift the icing bag. "I'll decide after I see your piping technique."
His eyebrows jump, and then that grin hits his mouth, quick and dangerous, like it belongs on a man who knows exactly what he's doing with his hands and enjoys the knowledge a little too much.
"Alright," he says, leaning in. "Show me."
You cut the tip of the bag, pinch it between your fingers, and press. A thick ribbon of icing oozes out onto the tray with a sound like defeat.
John watches, his attention sharp. "You're squeezing too hard."
"I'm not squeezing too hard," you argue, squeezing harder out of spite.
The icing slumps like a sad glacier.
John reaches across you without warning, his forearm brushing your wrist. His touch is warm, steady. He guides your hand with quiet confidence, like this is just another drill and you're his trainee who refuses to follow directions.
"Ease up," he murmurs close to your ear. "Let it flow."
Your breath catches on the last word. Your hand does, in fact, relax. The icing line smooths out, neat and glossy.
You glance up at him. "You're enjoying being right."
"I always enjoy being right."
"That's not true."
John's eyes flick to your mouth, and the air turnsā¦ different. Not heavy exactly. More like charged. Like the room has decided to pay attention.
"It's mostly true," he amends.
You push the first wall panel into the icing bead and hold it upright. John takes the opposite panel, mirroring you.
For a few seconds you're both still, leaning toward the center, hands steady, faces closer than necessary for baked goods warfare.
It smells like cinnamon and sugar and the kind of quiet you only get when nothing is on fire.
"This is kind of nice," you admit.
John's mouth softens. "Yeah."
Then the wall wobbles.
"Hold it," he orders.
"I am holding it."
"It's leaning."
"It's expressing itself."
John's laugh is low and brief, like he tried to keep it in and failed. "You're making excuses for a gingerbread wall."
"You're yelling at a gingerbread wall."
He shoots you a look. "Focus."
You stick your tongue out at him, which is extremely mature and effective.
He stares for a second, then drops his gaze like he's counting to ten. "Do not make that face at me."
"What face?"
"That one." His voice roughens, just a notch. "The one that says you're about to cause problems."
You smile sweetly. "Me? Never."
"Liar."
The wall steadies. Together you press the pieces into place. John's hand brushes yours, knuckles grazing, and it shouldn't matter. It does anyway.
When the base finally holds, you sit back on your heels and exhale.
John rolls his shoulders like he just survived the final round of a competition. "See? Strong foundation."
You point a finger at him. "Do not turn this into a metaphor."
"I'm not turning it into anything."
"Your eyes are turning it into something."
His eyes flick up, shameless. "Maybe you're projecting."
"You're absolutely projecting," you counter, and reach for the icing bag again.
The roof panels come next. They're heavier than they look, and as soon as you try to set one in place, the walls begin to buckle like they've remembered they're made of cookies.
John braces the house with one hand while you pipe icing along the top edge with the other.
"Careful," he says, and his tone drops, softer. "Don't rush."
"I'm not rushing."
"You're rushing."
You make a face and press harder. The icing spurts out in a rebellious blob that lands on the cornerā¦ then arcs, traitorous, toward you.
A fleck smacks your upper lip.
You freeze.
John freezes too.
For a second, the only sound is the faint hum of the refrigerator and your say nothing stare turning into a silent standoff with the universe.
You lift your hand toward your mouth, but John catches your wrist.
"Don't," he says.
You blink at him. "Don't what?"
His gaze locks on your lip like it's a target he's been trained to hit, and suddenly all the playful energy sharpens into something quieter, closer, more dangerous than it has any right to be in a living room full of sprinkles.
"Don't wipe it," he repeats, voice low.
Your throat goes dry. "Why?"
John's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile and losing. "Because."
"That's not an answer."
His eyes lift, meeting yours, and there's a heat there that makes your spine remember it has nerves. "Because I can't stop thinking about kissing it off."
For once, you don't have a quick comeback ready. Not a smart one, anyway.
Your heart does this ridiculous littleĀ thumpĀ like it wants to applaud.
You swallow. "Johnā¦"
He shifts closer, still holding your wrist, but gentle. Like he's asking without asking. His thumb presses lightly against your pulse point, and it's an unfair reminder that he can feel what you're feeling, can measure it.
Your lips part.
"You're getting distracted," you manage.
His eyes flick to the gingerbread house, held together by sheer will and icing, and then back to you. "Yeah," he says, completely unapologetic. "I am."
You tilt your chin up, daring. "So fix it."
John's expression changes, like something inside him settles. He leans in slowly, giving you time to stop him. You don't.
His mouth brushes yours first, soft, like a question. Then he shifts, precise, and kisses the icing from your lip with a gentle sweep that's somehow both sweet and indecently intimate. The taste of sugar blooms between you, and your hands forget what they were doing.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, close enough that you can feel his breath. "There," he murmurs. "Problem solved."
You stare at him, stunned into silence for half a heartbeat.
Then you lift your free hand, smear a tiny dab of icing on the corner of his mouth, and smile like an angel with a criminal record.
John blinks. "Did you justā¦"
"Problem created." you say sweetly.
His eyes narrow. "You're dangerous."
"Maybe."
He sets the gingerbread house down with extreme care, like he's placing a fragile artifact back into a museum, then turns fully toward you.
"Alright," he says, voice warm and warning all at once. "Now you're asking for it."
"What am I asking for?" you tease, even though the answer is obvious in the way he looks at you.
John leans in, and this time the kiss isn't a question. It's still gentle, still sweet, but there's a confident hunger to it that makes your breath tangle. He tastes like coffee and sugar and that quiet heat he keeps under control until he doesn't.
Your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly. He hums against your mouth, hand bracing at your waist, steadying you the way he steadied the walls.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and he exhales like he's amused at himself.
"You know," he murmurs, "we're never finishing that house."
You glance at the cookie structure behind him, now slightly slanted, frosting dripping in a slow surrender. "It's fine."
John's mouth curves. "It's leaning."
"It's expressing itself," you repeat.
He laughs again, low and genuine, then kisses you once more, quick, like punctuation.
"Next weekend," he says, "we do something less dangerous."
You raise an eyebrow. "Less dangerous than gingerbread?"
John's eyes flick to your mouth, lingering like he's filing the memory away for later. "Less dangerous than you with icing."
You nudge his shoulder with yours. "Coward."
He tightens his hand at your waist, pulling you a little closer, and his smile turns softer.
"Yeah," he says, like it's a confession and a promise. "Only around you."
āKokichi has lived in his new apartment for three weeks before he sets it on fire.ā
~ Orphaned work, āThe Way to a Man's Heart (is through his stomach)ā
If itās baking fluff youāre looking for, then this multichapter is about as much as you can get of either. The idea is relatively simple; Shuichiās new neighbor proves to be less than exemplary at cooking, so Shuichi offers to give him cooking lessons. Itās adorable and fun, with some cute subplots mixed inĀ: a birthday party, a cardboard cutout of Rantaro, and DICEās usual unspeakable crimes.
This is a charming fic and a nice exploration of how Shuichi and Kokichiās relationship might develop outside of the killing game. The strangers-to-lovers is realistically paced and fun to watch develop, and youāll learn a thing or two about cooking along the way.
Rated T
28,220 words, 7/7 chapters
Completed 10 February 2019
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I decided to post the rest of the story purely on AO3 but hereās the link for the finished story for anyone who follows me here but not on AO3 who might want to see it.
