Work Text:
“You just told me not to smoke. Like, less than 48-hours ago.”
He turns over his shoulder and looks up at her from his spot on the stoop. At her wrapped in a fluffy old bathrobe, wedged between the opened door and the frame. Her braids are all piled up on top of her head. Secured with a familiar scrunchie. She smells like a breeze.
It's as if the storm from the night before washed away all the things they'd been burying deep down. Like today is a fresh start.
He smells like the night before and now a cigarette on top. The longer he stares, the more she starts to smile, like she can't help herself any more than he can.
“You're right. I quit,” he says, glancing down at the cigarette between his fingers. He gets up from his spot, and walks a couple of feet, looking for some place to put the cigarette out. “That was before we, you know, uh-”
“Really?” she asks him, as he's about to put it out on the clean pavement. “That's very cliché.”
“Me putting out the smoke on the sidewalk, or the-”
“Both,” she tells him, going back inside as the door shuts after her.
He thinks over this new and tenuous situation. He was actually smoking because he felt happy for once, although, maybe it's his tendency towards the other thing? He was ruminating while she was in the shower. But she's right. Usually is.
The door opens again and she hands over an ashtray to him. There are a couple of butts already in there, just like he found it this morning along with the mostly full pack. He takes it from her hand and puts his out immediately.
“I practiced first,” she confesses with a shrug, pressing her lips together in a thin line when he raises his eyebrows in chagrin.
“Actually, I'm glad you're not any good at it-” he tells her, moving up the single step to get closer to her.
“Amusement and enjoyment,” she answers, with a delicate smile that he wants to sit down and draw so it's written in his memory forever. “I felt like you needed some.”
“Maybe we both did,” he says, moving in closer to her, watching her brown eyes widen in anticipation. Nothing but her between him and the door.
She leans in to kiss him, but he pulls back. “I'll go brush my teeth-”
“It's okay,” she whispers, moving in closer. “Just this once.”
Her arm circles around his shoulders and then their mouths meet. He's lost count already, but the effect is still the same. Every time is like the first time last night. He feels like he's floating, like he wants to dance or sing. Run down the street like an idiot telling everyone he meets how she makes him feel.
If that's pretty cliché, he's fine with it.
“Yeah,” she says, with a satisfied grin when their lips part. “That's how I always thought you might taste.”
All the blood leaves his head, so it takes him a minute to put together a reply. “I thought you wanted to go out for brunch?” he says to her suggestively. He files away his other question for later.
“Bet you could make me something real good.”
“Already halfway there,” he jokes, as she giggles and then turns around as he holds open the door to get them both back inside.
He bites on his lower lip at the thought of all the different ways the day could take them, coming up behind her and ushering them in. They're back inside her place, the door swinging shut and sealing them in their own little bubble. He thinks they should just let it all simmer a little longer before they go back out into the world. The city's still recovering from the storm. He's seen what's in her fridge, though, and it's pretty dire.
“Why did you smoke?” she asks him, as he presses his cheek to hers, then moves his lips to her neck.
“Was thinking about us fighting. About how it felt to take that cigarette out of your hand,” he says slowly, brushing the tip of his nose against her. “From your lips to mine. Almost like a kiss, y'know? As close as I thought I was ever gonna get to the real thing-”
“I let you get...quite a bit closer than that,” she says, amused, as he plants a kiss on the spot where her neck and shoulder meet.
“Yeah you did,” he says tenderly, pulling aside her robe until he can see the ink on her shoulder. “Bet I could get even closer,” he adds, kissing over the heart shape. He wonders who hurt her enough for her to get this done. How he doesn't want it to be him ever again. There's still so much they haven't talked about since last night. “I don't want to be cliché and all-”
“Oh please,” she says, turning around to face him now, her hands grasping his in between them. “I don't mind.”
He feels the color start to come up in his cheeks, the way she's looking at him now.
“Like...I could love cooking again. I think.”
“That was fast.”
He tries to not panic at the thought that he's going to get this wrong. That there's not enough honesty in that. “I thought you'd given up on me. That I was about to lose you for good.”
“I did think about leaving,” she admits, relaxing. “Even starting over again.” He watches her look around her apartment, like she's seeking something out as she scratches at her neck. “My parents never fought.”
“Oh, so you got the full Berzatto dysfunction junction crash course-” he breathes out.
“Yeah. And I didn't grow up with siblings. Just cousins,” she continues. “Just me and my dad most of the time. And-and I got all the attention. Did you ever?”
“Not the good kind,” he says with a sigh, watching her sympathetic expression. “You got good grades, though, right? You went to CIA-”
“Because I was terrified. Of fucking up and failing. But...I wanted all this, y'know?”
“And now?” he asks her, as her hands slip out of his.
“It's good if we talk about this stuff,” she goes on. “Right?”
“There's still only one Original Beef of Chicago,” he says, gesturing towards her, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he can't help it. They still haven't figured out the money situation.
“Please don't do that,” she tells him, moving towards the kitchen. He goes to sit on the arm of her couch, putting some space between them.
“I actually do know what it's like, Syd,” he says to her softly, grabbing one of the pillows to his chest. “Trying to prove to your family why this matters. Only, I was only good at one thing. Maybe this time, you and me? We can do it the right way.”
They've already talked it over with the team, but he's not even talking about the restaurant now. Maybe he never was, and she looks up from the spot she'd fixated at on the floor, and starts to smile again.
“You're better at more than one thing. At least between five and six,” she teases. “And it's not even 11 AM yet, so things are looking up.”
He laughs at her silly expression as she walks backs towards him. “I'll take it,” he tells her, as she leans in to kiss his forehead. “But one of them is cooking, so prepare to be smoked!”
Racing around her to the kitchen, he starts to go through the cabinets, opening them and looking through items. “Sydney...expired,” he tells her, putting the tin of canned tomatoes out on the counter.
“The expiration date is just a suggestion,” she mutters under her breath as he tilts his head at her. “We grew up broke. Didn't spend 12K on butter-”
“We didn't either,” he says to her, opening the fridge as he makes a mental note. “But not broke,” he admits, taking out the eggs. “I'm gonna make you these little Sicilian breakfast cookies. Haven't thought about them in decades.” He takes the flour and oil out of the cabinet. Digs around for baking powder.
“Is this a family recipe?” she asks as he relocates her mixer from out under the sink, notes the face she makes when he requests lemon zest.
“It is. Okay, maybe not that,” he tells her, taking the zester out of her hand. “Do the dry ingredients?” He takes the measuring cup she hands to him and starts loading up the wet ingredients while he tells her how to throw together the others.
“This is basically a biscuit recipe,” she tells him nonchalantly as she follows along, handing over her work to him, and watching how he eyeballs the time in the mixer while he gets the baking tray out and greases it. “Sans butter.”
“These are Sicilian. They are hand rolled,” he tells her when he shuts the mixer off and flours the counter up.
“Can make them whatever shape I want?”
“Yeah, go for it,” he says, eyeing her expression. “Mikey and Richie always used to make cocks and balls-”
“Ew. Totally ruined the moment,” she tells him with a roll of her eyes as he rolls out the dough.
“That's what you were thinking, though, wasn't it?” he laughs as she leans in closer to put a hand on his shoulder while he cuts them into smaller pieces.
“I was going to make yours, but nevermind,” she whispers to him, as she starts to roll a piece of the dough out.
“I just make the letter S, like my grandma used to,” he says, engrossed in watching her work. She catches him watching her hands, and their eyes lock. “Yeah, let's get these in the oven,” he adds, jumping in to help.
The timer gives them about fifteen minutes, but it's all he needs to get her on the kitchen table and get her robe open, his hands around her thighs as he goes down on her like she's his air or water supply, because she's like that now. She comes faster this time, he's not precisely sure how much, but he thinks the number of things he's great at has gone up to seven by the way she says his name. Just as she starts to get the fly of his jeans open to return the favor, the timer goes off.
“Timers,” she complains, as he heads back to the kitchen and checks the cookies.
“They're just right,” he calls to her, as she slips the robe back on and belts it, coming over to inspect his work. “Like you.”
“We could make a glaze, possibly?” she suggests, putting her finger to her lips and tapping. “But they'll need to cool first-”
“Okay,” he agrees immediately, kissing her desperately now, turning her around towards the window as he gets her robe open again while she undoes his jeans lightning-fast.
It takes a little logistics work, but if she's on one leg and he lifts her other and balances her against the wall, they can fuck in the kitchen. It makes him dizzy with desire. He's impressed that they make this work, the sounds of the train rattling by mostly drowns out the noises they're making out the open window behind her.
“Just, like, right there on the counter,” he whispers, as he fucks her up against the wall. “So many times, Sydney. So many times-”
“Huh?” she asks, over the clacking noise of the tracks, her top lip curling as he moves into her hard and fast, like she did last night when he did this slower in her bed and watched her every expression.
“So many times!” he enunciates loudly. “I wanted to fuck you in the kitchen!” Just as the train passes. It's like he's made an announcement to the whole neighborhood. Someone on the street actually shouts at them through the open window.
She has a hand over her mouth, stifling a burst of laughter as it gets quiet again. “Show me how you really feel, Chef,” she urges him on in a low voice, her hand on his ass now.
He puts everything he's got into it, until they're both panting and hanging onto each other as they drift through an orgasmic haze. His stomach rumbles, so he helps her down to the floor, pulls out. He runs a hand through his hair, confirming she's done a number on it. He's unable to form words just yet, but the feeling is absolute bliss.
“I'll, um, make the coffee,” she tells him, popping him on the butt lightly as she walks by him. “While you take a shower, huh?”
“Okay,” he says, bending to pull up his jeans, and button up. Drifting towards her to kiss her cheek, retying her robe reverently for her from behind.
“The right way,” he says, changing his mind and putting the cookies on a plate. He takes them to the table and slides down into chair, relaxing into it. Just enjoying watching her.
“I mean, good talk, right?” she teases, taking the coffee mugs in her hand and carrying them to the table.
“What do you think that looks like?” he asks, as she joins him.
“I don't know. You don't really like cooking, though.”
“I like cooking for you,” he tells her, taking the mug from her and taking a sip.
“Just for me?” she says, stretching out her long legs across to his lap as he settles her feet there. “My own personal Michelin chef.”
He feels himself blush again. She told him all about eating that dish he made at Empire. It's still hard to believe all of that is real. It's like magic. Like something you only see in the movies.
“Just for you,” he tells her, watching her take a bite of the cookies, the delight on her face. He just doesn't want this to end. Honesty is what got them both here. “What if I got good at math?” he announces as she freezes mid-bite. He was expecting her to laugh at him for some reason, but she doesn't.
“You hate math. You're afraid of it.”
“No, I'm bad at it,” he answers. “I wasn't good in school. But maybe...maybe I could get good at it now?” he goes on, tapping his fingertips on the table.
“Are you going to go to DeVry?” she teases, imitating Marcus.
“Yeah? Maybe,” he answers back and sets his mug down and reaches for a cookie as she slides the plate closer to him. “I think that would be useful? Especially with Sug wanting to stay at home with Sophie.”
“Then you'd be good at, like, twenty things,” she says with a sparkle in her eye. “But, why?”
“'Cause...I've figured out what I like,” he tells her, staring. Watching her eyelashes flutter at the attention.
“I-I think you could be very useful,” she answers, biting on her lower lip. “And it would make all of us so proud. It would make me really proud. Like, happy for you.”
“'Cause you think doing math is hot,” he teases, biting into the cookie.
“I mean...it doesn't hurt?”
They taste better than he remembers.
Must be the company he's keeping these days.