Chapter Text
Lipton and Speirs stole more time during the morning together. Drinking coffee at one of the tables George had cleared off the day before, they peacefully awaited his return.
Speirs had a hand wrapped around his coffee mug, a cigarette lazily held in the other. He had kept his apron on, and Lipton was sincerely unsure whether or not Speirs was aware. Still. Among other things, he still had flour over himself, most obvious of which scattered over his face and hair.
Lipton watched him with amusement, waiting. Any second now.
Tilting his head away from the table, Speirs abandoned the coffee in hand to drag his fingers through his hair, shaking out some of the flour.
There it is.
"Honestly Ron, how did you manage to get flour in your hair in the first place?" Lipton chuckled.
Speirs straightened himself up in the chair, mindlessly stubbing his cigarette out against the edge of the table.
He could sense that Speirs was trying not to let a smile escape him; the slight blush on his cheeks was a dead giveaway. "By now, I've lost track as to how many times I've dusted flour patches off your face."
Speirs swept his floury fringe from his brow, only to have it routinely fall back moments later. "Why do you wait so long to tell me?"
"C'mere." Lipton gestured for Speirs to lean forward. Reaching a hand out, he gently began to brush away some flour. There had been one particularly heavy patch of the stuff over Speirs' left cheek that Lipton had neglected to mention, just for his own amusement. Besides, Speirs didn't seem to mind all the flour.
"And why would you try to keep track if it will inevitably happen again?" Speirs was watching him contently, leaning into his touch.
It was subtle, but Lipton felt it. "Good question."
Speirs quietly thanked him, then he brushed his finger tips over where Lipton had touched, as if an after thought. He stood up from the table. "Think I'll have some more coffee, how about you?"
"Sure," Lipton agreed, standing up as well, picking up their mugs from the table.
Speirs had intercepted before Lipton could get away with the mugs, and as he turned to face Speirs completely, he felt a fire inside creep to the surface. This fire was familiar to Lipton by this point in time, he knew it was something Speirs brought out in him.
Lipton set the empty mugs down, then steadily began to close the space between them, urging himself to be brave. This new sort of brave.
Speirs did not back away. Lipton watched as his mouth parted ever so slightly, and when he felt Speirs' hand along the back of his neck urging him closer, Lipton leaned in to kiss him. It didn't take long before his hands found their way into Speirs' tousled hair, and what started as a soft kiss was beginning to turn into something more fierce. Lipton felt ignited. So much time spent wondering how Speirs would taste, how he would feel pressed up against him.
It was Lipton who slowly pulled away first, becoming aware of the hand around his waist keeping him near, and the other now sliding under his chin. He smiled as he lightly swept the tips of his fingers over Speirs' bottom lip, moments later Speirs' mouth was on his once more.
"I've been waiting for a moment to do that."
"So have I, for some time," he began to admit.
"Why now then?" Speirs whispered against his lips.
Reluctantly, Lipton took a small step back, and pointed to his chest. "Your apron was a great encouragement."
Speirs simply stared at Lipton as he began to untie his apron. He shook out some of the flour, and mouthed the words to himself.
Lipton moved to his side as Speirs tossed a smile his way, then he wrapped one arm around his waist again, pulling him close. With his free hand, Speirs held up the apron with its inferior hand writing, reading out loud. "Kiss the cook!"
"You really didn't notice?"
"I can hardly read it," Speirs laid the apron down on the table, then smiled warmly at Lipton. "George?"
"George."