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She's perched carelessly on the counter as she watches him mix dough. "So what do you do when it's crumbly like that?"
"Just sprinkle some water and mix it in until it stops crumbling." Hunk hopes the rules still apply when the dough is purple and made from... Coran said it was an excretion of one of the insects from the planet below, but Hunk prefers not to think of that. "And if it gets sticky, just add more flour." Oil substitute, where did he put it? The gray stuff with the consistency of applesauce, he's sure he set it down in a dish nearby. "Do you see a--"
Pidge holds the dish out. "This?"
"Thanks." Hunk starts to spoon the gray stuff into a mixing bowl. "Can you cover the dough with a towel? It has to rise. Well, I hope it can rise."
Pidge hops off the counter to start rummaging through a drawer. "So how do you know how much extra flour or water to add? And don't you have to measure that stuff?" She nods at the dish in Hunk's hands.
Hunk shrugs. "I dunno? You just sort of eyeball it. Cooking is like that sometimes."
"I mean, that's how you do it, but how much are you supposed to use?"
"You're... you're not supposed to use any special amount. I mean, it's not like the Cooking Police are going to kick down your doors if you put an extra egg in a cake mix."
"You can put an entire extra egg in a cake??"
"Oh my god, Pidge, just cover the dough already." Hunk puts the dish away and starts mashing the apple-saucey substance into a hopefully smoother mix. "It's like, you know, a pinch of this, a dash of that. It's not always a science."
"What the hell is a dash?"
"Seriously?"
--
Lance yawns, shuffling down the hall. It's early, probably too early for anyone else to be up, but Lance trudges to the kitchen anyway. He's sure there's still some of Hunk's purple bagels left.
There's a gentle scuffle. Lance blinks and reaches for one of the cabinets. "If one of you mice is stuck in a box again," he starts, then yelps a "Jesus Christ Pidge what are you doing."
Pidge doesn't stir from her place sitting cross-legged on the countertop, laptop balanced precariously on her knee, covered in various stains and staring intently in a mixing bowl.
"Pidge."
"What." She leans sideways and picks tweezers out of her toolbox why is her toolbox in the kitchen.
"Why is your toolbox in the kitchen. Why are you in the kitchen. What are you doing and also what is wrong with you."
"Cooking is flawed. Measurements aren't precise enough. Most recipes don't even use metric." Pidge says this in a monotone, tweezing grains of what looks like wheat one by one onto a scale.
"How do you have a metric scale. When was the last time you were asleep."
"Quantifying cooking measurements can only lead to improvement so I'm doing it," Pidge goes on like Lance hasn't said anything. "I've made the executive decision that a previously so-called 'dash' is equivalent to no more or less than" - she turns the laptop around to show more spreadsheets than Lance wants to look at this early - "zero point nine milliliters. I'm going to post the new rules in the kitchen once I've figured out a splash, a pinch, and whatever fresh hell a smidgen is."
"Pidge, no."
"It's imperfect for no reason!"
"Not everything has to be science, Pidge!"
"How is this not better?"
"Go to bed!"
"I have experimental results! The average measurement of all the times I tested a 'dash' came out to be 0.9 milliliters, I have all the data right here, and some high speed footage, and--"
"High speed footage of what? You eating shit at the cinnamon challenge? Am I missing something here? I feel like I'm really missing something here."
"Quantification of--"
"Lemme stop you right there." Lance shuffles to the cabinets. "I need bagels before quantifying anything."
-
"Mhm. I see that. Should we go back and see if we can improve the resolution? Aerosolization of fine components was something we didn't account for."
Hunk wishes he were surprised at finding Lance and Pidge covered in food debris and surrounded by delicate equipment in the early morning, but it's not the first time. He takes the time for one long sigh before diving in. "What are you two talking about?"
Lance is consulting a spreadsheet and doesn't look up. "Quantifying."
"Pidge, you dragged Lance into this too? I'm disappointed."
"It's important work, Hunk!"
"Can we ask Coran if we can go back to that planet with the hot vine girls and the particle accelerator?" Lance asks. "We need smaller measurements. These aren't sensitive enough."
"I'll emergency call him." Pidge reaches for her communicator.
"Uh. No. No you won't." Hunk plucks the communicator out of her reach. "First, this isn't an emergency. Second, he'll probably get just as caught up in this as you two, and then instead of forming Voltron we'll spend the rest of our lives making intergalactic brownies for the Galra."
"Strategy brownies," Lance mumbles, tapping a pen against his lip. "Put chemical equations into cake icing and use them to send coded messages..."
"Can I stop you right now." Hunk grabs the pen out of Lance's hands. "This is not helping anything, Pidge stayed up all night again, and you're not improving anyone's cooking. Sometimes a dusting is just a dusting! Accept it!"
They both went silent and looked at each other.
"We don't even have that one on the list," Pidge says. "A dusting? That sounds like we'll need to measure in grams, but also have it in a vacuum space?"
"Right, right," Lance nods, "or at least a sealed space so no particles float away."
"You two are both wrong and hopeless," Hunk announces, then grabs a beaker full of--
"Is this sand."
They trade looks. "It mimics sugar granules," Pidge says with a shrug. "We didn't want to waste any real food. Especially not sugar."
"You're both terrible."
"But efficient," Pidge shoots back.
"And scientists." Lance nods to punctuate his point.
A few beats of silence pass.
Hunk finally sighs. "I'll ask Coran about the particle accelerator planet."
Lance pats his wrist, leaving a dusty green residue. "You're a good man."
"I know."