For Mercutio
Part of the Don We Now Our Gay Apparel Christmas challenge

"Flour?"

"In the canister on the counter."

"Sugar?"

"Same place."

"Baking powder?"

"Umm." Short silence. "The cupboard nearest to the fridge, on the second shelf." Pause. "I think."

"Yep, got it. What about orange juice?"

Lance's forehead wrinkled. "In the fridge," he said slowly.

There was a pause. Then, "what about mild salsa?"

Lance rose from his chair. "What the hell are you making? Baking powder and salsa and orange juice? I'm not sure I want to give this a try."

"I'm not sure you want to come in here, either," came Chris's voice from the kitchen. "I know how you are about messes..." He trailed off. Lance blinked.

"Oooookay. Well, I'll just leave this to you and call for Chinese?"

"O ye of little faith!" Chris announced from behind the kitchen door.

"Oh me of empty stomach is more like it," Lance replied. "Besides, anything that contains flour, sugar, and baking powder is probably a dessert, not a main course. And believe me, I am not in the mood for a dessert. But the salsa does mystify me..." His hand moved to the handle on the closed door, but as soon as his hand touched it, he heard Chris from within:

"Don't even think about it."

"It is my house," Lance countered, arching an eyebrow.

"It is also your dinner. And put that eyebrow down." Lance's other eyebrow shot up, startled. "Yes, Mr. Bass. Just wait a minute. Go back to the Wall Street Journal. Let the new Emeril work his magic."

"If I hear so much as one 'BAM' out of you, that's it," Lance warned, "but go ahead. I'd say you probably shouldn't quit your day job, though."

"Again, O ye of little faith! Come on, Lance. Read. I'll call you when dinner's ready."

Grumbling good-naturedly, Lance headed back to his chair and the Journal -- and promptly ceased caring about some multibillion dollar merger happening in Chicago, because the smell of dinner wafted into the room. Salsa. And it smelled good. Lance shook his head and looked down at the paper, but he couldn't concentrate on anything past the words "Today in Chicago, one of".

Once again he stood, put the paper on the coffee table, and wandered in the direction of the kitchen.

"I can hear you coming, Bass." The kitchen door was entirely too thin, Lance decided.

"What is this, the Inquisition? I just want to know what's for dinner! And maybe have some already. It's late and I'm hungry and I just want whatever the hell salsa thing you're making in there, because it smells really good and I take back the Emeril thing, okay?"

The door opened a crack, and Chris's eye appeared. "How do I know it's the real you?" Chris asked. Lance gave an exasperated sigh. Chris nodded. "Okay, that's you. Count to ten, slowly, and then you can come in."

Lance smiled and sighed. Chris was so weird. "One," he began.

"Slower!"

Lance did the slow-motion voice: "Twooooooooooooooooooooooooo". He heard things rattling in the kitchen.

"Dammit Lance! Stop it with the rumbling! Stuff's almost falling off shelves here!" Lance chuckled. "But you can keep counting," he added, after a minute or so of silence.

"Three... Four... Five..." Lance finished "Ten" just as Chris opened the door with a mispronounced "Voilą!"

The counters were a mess. The sink was a war zone, where Chris had tried and failed to learn the intricacies of liquid soap and a sponge. The stove was. Oh. The stove was rather caked in... something. Lance couldn't tell whether it was blackened pastry or blackened chicken. Or possibly even blackened salsa. And then there was the table. It was perfectly clean, and set for two, with three covered dishes and a bottle of white wine.

Lance's mouth dropped open. Chris pushed his jaw back up. "It's not nice to stare like that. We are not a codfish!"

"I. Of. What." Lance blinked. "I didn't know you knew Mary Poppins."

"All my effort, and he focuses on my knowledge of movies. Ha!"

"No, I mean. Wow. Just... stunned, I guess. Though the sink..." he trailed off, waving his hands.

"Don't even think about the sink. I'll take care of it later. I promise. But now, we eat!" With that, Chris pushed Lance over to the table, pulled out a chair, and gestured toward it.

Lance raised his eyebrow and said "I'm capable of seating myself, Chris. But I appreciate the effort," he added, seeing the look on Chris's face. He sat down, grabbed a napkin for his lap, and reached to uncover one of the dishes.

Chris looked at him. "What's with the napkin?"

"Well, I can never be too careful around something as potentially messy as what I see on the stove," Lance said, and immediately regretted it.

"Look, I told you I'll clean up the stove, okay?"

"Fine, let's eat. I'm starving."

Dinner turned out to be salsa chicken with melted cheddar and mozzarella, light al dente pasta with marinara like they'd had in Italy, and steamed broccoli. Because, Lance thought wryly to himself, there's nothing that screams 'dry white wine' like steamed broccoli.

But the meal was good; Lace was surprised, actually, at how good it was. He kept taking more chicken, and when Chris gave him an odd look, he responded by shrugging, swallowing, and saying "so I like the chicken!" When he'd finished, he looked at what was left on the table and said, "um, so what was with the stuff you asked for? You know, baking powder, sugar, flour. That stuff."

"Just a second. You're so impatient!"

"Takes one to know one..."

Chris rolled his eyes and took a perfect coffee cake out of the oven. "I was making breakfast for tomorrow, I'll have you know," he said. "I'll just let it cool over here..."

"You're really incredible, you know that?"

"Yes, well. We try." Chris bowed.

"Wait, wasn't there one more thing?" Lance thought for a second. "Orange juice! Where's the orange juice?"

"Hey, a guy gets thirsty while cooking." Chris looked so sheepish that Lance bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"Just out of curiosity, what's the occasion?"

"Nothing, Bass. You're just too damn cute. And it's funny when you don't understand spontaneity."

"I didn't know you knew what 'spontaneity' meant. And I'll show you exactly how spontaneous I can be." With that he tossed his napkin on the table, rose, stretched, picked up Chris and slung him over his shoulder, and headed up the stairs.

"And they say romance is dead!" was Chris's reply, as he was dragged upstairs, certainly not against his will.