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‘Wait, you’re seriously telling me you’ve never-‘
‘Nope,’ you say, letting the p pop with a shrug. ‘Never got around to it. Or had time. Instant noodles or takeout, that’s all I can manage. Or toast. I think it’s a holdover from med school, you’re lucky if you get thirty seconds to eat, so cooking is just a total no go. I’m just more of a takeout person when it comes to it, I guess.’
‘That’s…’ Eliot seems to be struggling with the concept, an outright befuddled look on his face, and you can’t help but giggle a bit at the expression ‘…that sucks. You can’t not know how to cook anything.’
‘I told you, I can do instant noodles. And toast.’
‘That don’t count!’ Suddenly he stands and makes urgent motions at you. ‘C’mon. I’m making chilli, and you’re helping. You gotta learn. Ain’t right, living on takeout and instant crap, you know how unhealthy that is? Not to mention disgusting.’
Laughing unashamedly now, you trail after him to the kitchen and make a small show of leering when he grabs an apron from the peg.
‘Mmm. Love you in florals.’
‘Get your head out the gutter.’ Throwing a spare at you – it seems to be covered in Muppets, so presumably some kind of prank gift from Hardison – he shoots a mild glare and then starts getting things out of cupboards. You’re still trying not to giggle when he manhandles you across to stand in front of him before the chopping board, putting his arms around you to guide your hands on the knife, because apparently dicing an onion isn’t as simple as just attacking it with the blade until it is all in smallish bits. Like you have even a chance of paying attention to what Eliot is saying when he’s pressed up against your back and speaking in that low, commanding tone that makes you tingle all the way down to your toes.
‘I can think of something much more fun we could be doing than trying to teach me to cook,’ you purr, wriggling your ass against him a bit.
‘Focus,’ he all but growls in your ear – oh sure, El, like that’s gonna help – and then, to your disappointment, backing off to find a saucepan. ‘Now you gotta brown the chuck in batches so it doesn’t overcrowd the pan…’
He’s taking this so seriously that you decide to try to pay attention, battling down the urge to drop to your knees, hoist that apron up and get his jeans undone to make him forget all about minced garlic or crushed tomatoes. It is sweet, really, that he’s so insistent on trying to fix a major gap in your basic life skills portfolio, especially when you’re all but rubbing yourself up against him like a cat in heat because god, he’s hot when he’s giving orders.
‘Now put the meat back in-‘
‘I can think of somewhere I’d like your meat back in…’
‘-and get the tomatoes in there, and stop that or it’ll burn!’
You laugh outright at his glower – pretending you don’t notice the slightly awkward way he adjusts his jeans as he goes to the sink, ah-ha– and take a long sniff of the mixture, on some blind reflex adding a half-teaspoon more paprika and a pinch of salt, stirring as the fragrances begin to take on the properly familiar smoky yumminess that is Eliot’s chili recipe.
He turns back with a cup of stock and his nostrils flare with a small frown.
‘Did you do something?’
‘Uh. More paprika, and a teensy bit more salt,’ you admit, trying not to shrink under his stare, and chew at your lip when he grabs the spoon from you for a quick taste test of the mixture.
‘Huh. That’s… pretty much perfect. How’d you-‘
‘It just didn’t seem… quite right.’ You shrug, add a little of the stock and then a splash of Sam Adams from the bottle on the counter, and resume stirring. ‘Just glad I didn’t ruin it.’
‘You have cooked before,’ he exclaims, almost accusingly.
‘What?’
‘How’d you know to put the stock in gradually?’
‘Uh. If it all goes in at once it’ll go too watery and need to boil off or it’ll be soup?’ you say, making a face. That’s just elementary science, surely. Not cooking.
He cracks a grin and actually laughs – that all-too-rare, carefree and really happy laugh that makes his whole face light up – before giving you a quick kiss.
‘A takeout person my ass – you’re a natural at this. Shoulda picked something trickier.’
‘Like what, a souffle?’ you mock, although it’s hard not to preen a little at his proud, pleased expression. ‘It’s just stuff in a pan, right?’
‘But flavour balancing, getting a recipe on instinct… that’s a talent.’ Another smile and he goes to stand behind you again, wrapping his arms around your waist and putting his chin on your shoulder to watch as you add a bit more beer and stock, still stirring. ‘You been holding out on me.’
‘Not on purpose!’ Grinning now, you wriggle your ass again and chuckle when that gets a low groan out of him. ‘I’ve never tried cooking properly before. Besides, you know I’m useless at holding out on you for anything else…’
‘I swear to god, after we have dinner I’m gonna bend you over this damn counter.’
‘Can’t you do that while it simmers?’
‘No!’