[There's that relief again, clear as day in her expression, the way her eyes light up and the smile splits across her lips. It's honest and real and she carries no shame in that. For now, just for a little while, that fear of losing him again is quietly set to the wayside. Another chance. She'd made the right call.]
You've got a deal.
[And then? Then, she makes macarons. She makes the best and most perfect fucking elderflower macarons she's ever made in her life. She keeps to her side of the kitchen, keeps her mouth shut, though it's one of the hardest things she's ever done. She speaks only if he does first, and focuses entirely on every measure, every ingredient, every roll of her hands against the dough. She stands quietly in the corner where he can see her when she needs to wait for things to rise or rest, fiddling with her communicator or harmless cantrips, always keeping her hands where he can see them, until it's time to get back to baking. She makes the macarons exactly how he does, how they used to side by side. She rolls her heart and soul into these goddamned cookies.
By the time she at last pulls the tray out of the oven, the whole kitchen smells like them. It smells as good as if he'd baked them himself. And she can't help the pride that swells up inside her at the sight of them, laid out and cooling on the tray, waiting for the filling. Ten fucking years trapped in a cave and she's still got it.]
no subject
You've got a deal.
[And then? Then, she makes macarons. She makes the best and most perfect fucking elderflower macarons she's ever made in her life. She keeps to her side of the kitchen, keeps her mouth shut, though it's one of the hardest things she's ever done. She speaks only if he does first, and focuses entirely on every measure, every ingredient, every roll of her hands against the dough. She stands quietly in the corner where he can see her when she needs to wait for things to rise or rest, fiddling with her communicator or harmless cantrips, always keeping her hands where he can see them, until it's time to get back to baking. She makes the macarons exactly how he does, how they used to side by side. She rolls her heart and soul into these goddamned cookies.
By the time she at last pulls the tray out of the oven, the whole kitchen smells like them. It smells as good as if he'd baked them himself. And she can't help the pride that swells up inside her at the sight of them, laid out and cooling on the tray, waiting for the filling. Ten fucking years trapped in a cave and she's still got it.]