Work Text:
Carson was frustrated. She’d been to three different markets in Rockford trying to find the right apples to bake her semi-famous apple pie. Well, it was sort of semi-famous among the other housewives she sang with in the church choir back in Idaho. She chuckled to herself as she recalled the look of horror on Emily’s face that day at the train station when Carson ran away from home, towards her destiny, and changed the course of her entire life. Forever. But there wasn’t time to think about that right now. Right now, she needed to find those apples, damnit.
She was running out of options. Rockford wasn’t all that big and didn’t offer an endless supply of grocery stores. What are my choices? she pondered to herself. She’d seen a farmer’s market run by the Black folks of Rockford, but anytime she’d walked by, she was met with brief glances that seemed to radiate confusion about why this weird white lady kept walking by the rows of tents and stands, awkwardly trying to peruse the market’s offerings without getting too close. Giving up with a huff, Carson turned around to head back to the first store she’d tried. If she couldn’t find the Granny Smiths, she’d just have to make-do with what she could find. Even with the war rations, Carson knew the rest of the necessary ingredients were back at the house; she’d made sure to check before she left. Flour? Check. Sugar? Yep. Butter? Yes, barely. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt? Yes, yes, and yes. Lemon juice and vanilla extract? Shit. She couldn’t remember. Oh well. Suddenly, she had an idea. She felt her pace quicken as the excitement of baking filled her mind.
She walked through the store’s front door, working hard to avoid eye contact with the clerks and customers alike. She had just been here; surely someone would see her come back, try and ask her about it, and then she’d be forced to entertain a clumsy conversation about why she’d left empty-handed in the first place and was now returning to the same store less than thirty minutes later. Trying very hard to avoid that mess, she didn’t bother grabbing a shopping basket and walked briskly in the direction of the ingredient she’d thought might just be an acceptable enough replacement for the right apples.
She passed a few aisles, their shelves filled with things like cereal, dried goods such as rice and powdered milk, and loaf after loaf of bread before glancing down the next aisle to her right. She spotted rows and rows of canned goods. Shirley might die just walking in this aisle, she thought to herself with a small, wry smile, the dimple on her right cheek almost noticeable. Carson meandered slowly and deliberately down the aisle as she checked all the labels on the tin cans. When the very familiar label caught her attention, she almost dropped the pocketbook dangling lazily in her left hand. What in the world?! All the way in Rockford, IL? Impossible! Carson picked the can up off the shelf, her eyes wide in amazement. “Idaho’s Pride” stared up at her from the label on the front of the tin. The signature blue script font was unmistakable; she’d know it anywhere. Well, she thought, I guess if I can’t find the right apples for the pie, this is definitely an excellent second choice! At least I know how this applesauce behaves in my recipes. She couldn’t believe her luck.
More than satisfied with the ingredient substitution, Carson headed towards the cashier to pay for her beloved Idaho’s Pride. She couldn't help but casually toss the cylindrical tin in the air as she walked. It was a habit - developed over years of playing baseball. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. U – oh shit. Carson’s arms flailed for a second before she caught herself quickly, the heel of her dress shoe having tried to slide out from under her, taking her foot with it. Her shoe skimmed the surface of the floor as it moved through the spilled liquid she hadn’t seen during the mindless game of catch she’d just been playing. Righting herself, Carson moved to gather the items she’d dropped in the momentary chaos. Picking up her pocketbook first, then the now-dented can of applesauce, her roommate’s warning sounded in her head, “Botulism can and will kill you, Carson!” Oh, Shirls, she sighed to herself as she continued her journey to the cashier – carefully this time. She briefly contemplated replacing the dented can but decided against it.
After a brief but friendly exchange with the cashier, Carson was on her way back to the Peaches’ house to begin baking. She was so excited about the pie-baking process she practically skipped home. She did actually skip a few times, but hoped that no one was paying enough attention to notice her. As she climbed the stairs to the house, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of her favorite red-headed first basewoman opening the front door to come outside for a smoke.
“Hey Chickadee,” Greta greeted her with a smile. “Whatcha got there?” Carson could feel the smile spreading across her face and the color slightly rising in her cheeks.
“Check this out!” She eagerly held out the tin of applesauce for Greta’s inspection.
“What am I supposed to be seeing?” Greta asked quizzically.
“Read the label!” Carson was impatient. This woman was brilliant. How was she not getting this right now!?
Greta laughed as the realization washed over her. “Idaho’s Pride, huh? Is this a brand you can get back home?”
“Yeah! I use it all the time when I bake. I couldn’t find the right apples for the pie I’m making, so I thought about what I could use as a substitute. When I saw this on the shelf, I couldn’t believe my eyes! It’s my favorite applesauce, Greta!” Carson was so excited to share this piece of home with the woman, she didn’t realize her voice had gone up a few octaves during her rambling description.
Greta scrunched her nose at the shorter woman as she tried to keep from laughing at Carson’s giddiness. God she’s adorable when she’s excited, the redhead mused to herself.
Suddenly remembering they weren’t alone, both women looked around the porch to find half of their teammates pointing bemused expressions in Carson’s direction. Jess and Lupe caught each other’s eyes over the playing cards in their hands and laughed.
“Ok, Shaw,” Lu started.
“Yeah, have fun baking your pie with applesauce,” Jess finished.
The two roared with laughter and went back to their card game while Esti looked on, still confused. The rest of the Peaches giggled at Carson before returning to their respective tasks.
Carson shrugged off the team’s good-natured teasing before catching Greta’s eyes once again. A knowing look and an almost imperceptible nod were exchanged before Greta lit her cigarette and Carson moved to go inside. Pausing in the doorframe, Carson looked over her shoulder and caught Greta’s wink. She hurriedly glanced around to make sure their teammates hadn’t seen, but the other girls were already back in their own worlds and hadn’t bothered to look up again.
Now in the kitchen, Carson found herself moving expertly around the space. Even though she had only been in this house for a few weeks, baking for her was a well-rehearsed dance after years of practice. She could practically pull ingredients off of cupboard shelves without looking. Deft hands made quick work of collecting the rest of the ingredients and various necessary baking supplies. Absent-mindedly humming as she worked, she didn’t hear Greta come in.
“Hey Coach. Want some help?” Her voice was low, the question flirtatious, and Carson’s whole body shivered in response. This time she didn’t stop the smile that spread across her face.
She turned to Greta – “Sure,” she said, dimples on full display and dulcet tones playing in her voice. “Have you ever baked a pie before?” she asked, curious about both the answer and why she’d never thought to ask before.
“I have, actually,” Greta responded.
Hmm. That’s a surprise. Carson tried to imagine Greta baking, but she couldn’t quite conjure the image.
“Do you have a recipe?” the taller woman wondered, interrupting Carson’s mini daydream.
Shaking her head as if to clear the haze, Carson responded, “Sort of. I used to write recipes on index cards, ya know, like the ones I write the plays on?”
“Oh, I know all about your little cards, Shaw. I’ve seen you pouring over them at all hours of the day and night when you think no one’s watching.” She paused before continuing, “I meant what I said before. I like to watch you. You’re cute when you’re focused.”
Carson’s cheeks burned. How is this woman even real? Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Carson locked eyes with Greta. She almost lost herself in the mischievous glint staring back at her. “You think I’m cute, huh?”
“Uh huh. Yeah. I do,” the redhead’s face breaking out in her patented coy grin.
“Well, I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” Carson countered.
Now it was Greta’s turn to flush, her cheeks and eyes darkening simultaneously. Carson enjoyed seeing the effect she had on the other woman; the woman so pristine, so constantly and unfalteringly put together. It made Carson’s heart swell to know she could affect her like that.
Breaking their revery, Greta blinked before looking away and back towards the pile of baking supplies. She cleared her throat gently before asking Carson about her game plan.
“Well, we’ve gotta start with the crust. It has to be the perfect combination of buttery and flaky. Do you want to get started on that?”
“I’d be happy to, Coach.” Greta winked at her baking partner.
“Oh, okay,” Carson laughed flirtatiously as she passed the flour and butter across the table, pausing briefly to allow her fingertips to brush against the other woman’s. She cautiously glanced at Greta, curious if the other woman’s body had suddenly come alive, too. Searching her face for any sort of indication, Carson’s cheeks flushed when their eyes met. Greta was studying her in return, eyes drinking in every feature, memorizing her in that moment.
Fingertips played over one another and delicately intertwined as they continued to hold the other’s gaze. Carson’s lips parted slightly as she lost herself in the moment. Greta’s mouth slowly curled into a grin. Without conscious thought, the pair slowly leaned into one another. Carson’s eyes flashed to Greta’s lips and back up again. Instinctively, her grip tightened on the other woman’s hand. Suddenly aware that her mouth felt like the desert, Carson licked her lips and swallowed hard.
It was in that moment Jess peeked her head into the kitchen. She smiled knowingly to herself when the pair suddenly jumped apart. Not wanting to embarrass her teammates, Jess quickly let them know the rest of the team had decided to go to the movies (Esti was thrilled) and asked if they wanted to join. She chuckled to herself as she waited for their answer.
After a brief and polite declination, Carson and Greta returned to the task at hand. It was…relieving? ...exciting? to know they’d have the kitchen to themselves while they baked together, especially after Jess’s little interruption.
The women made idle chit-chat as they talked about necessary measurements for the ingredients. Carson watched as Greta carefully measured out the flour and salt and sifted them together into a glass mixing bowl. She really has baked before. That’s adorable. This is nice. I’m usually the one having to do this by myself all the time. It’s nice to have company. It’s even nicer that the company is her. I could see us working together in the kitchen years from now. The thought came so suddenly and without warning it threw her off guard. After taking a minute to ponder the potential ramifications, she decided to keep the thought to herself for now. She didn’t want to spook Greta and potentially ruin their afternoon together. Still though, the thought lingered. She resolved to tuck it in the back of her mind and address it later, when an opportunity presented itself.
She glanced back at the bowl and noticed Greta had begun cutting pats of butter into the flour with a fork.
“No, no, no. You’re doing that all wrong,” she gently chastised.
“What are you talking about, Carson?” her tone somewhat annoyed. “I’m cutting the butter into the flour. You said you wanted buttery and flaky, right? How would you do it?” She looked at Carson, waiting for a response.
Carson moved around to the other side of the table until she was practically standing in Greta’s space. “First of all, you don’t do it with a fork. You can’t feel the texture as you work if you do it that way.”
“Goodness gracious,” Greta sighed, slightly amused.
Carson ignored her, “Here, let me show you.” Carson took the fork out of Greta’s hand and laid it on the table. Taking her wedding ring off and stashing it in her pocket for safe keeping, of course, she took Greta’s hands in her own and guided them into the bowl. “Do you trust me?” she whispered.
“Yes” came the almost automatic reply. Their eyes met again. Their combined surprise was reflected in their gazes. Smiling softly at one another, they returned their attention to the bowl.
“Relax your fingers and your hands,” Carson gently instructed.
Doing as she was told, Greta allowed the smaller woman to maneuver her hands at will. Carson cupped her hands around the other woman’s, their fingers parallel with one another. Hooking her thumbs over the outside of the taller woman’s index fingers, she placed her thumbs in the center of the redhead’s hands to get them to relax even further. She could feel Greta’s breath against her cheek and neck as they worked so closely together. She didn’t miss the quick gasp when she pressed her thumbs down into the woman’s palms. Loosening the pressure, she took a minute to run gentle, teasing circles over the calloused skin below the tips of her thumbs.
“Carson,” Greta whispered against her ear.
A pause.
Another gasp.
“Yeah?” her own shaky breath caught in her throat.
The redhead’s hands squeezed around the still-dancing thumbs. Carson felt a gentle smile pull at her lips.
The demand came as a whisper, “Kiss me.”
They turned so they were facing one another, their eyes darting towards the other’s lips. The hands that had been cradling one another now took up residence on the other woman’s cheeks. Breath speeding, they locked eyes once more before slowly moving in to meet one another in a delicate kiss. Neither was sure whose sigh that was, but Carson felt herself leaning against the table, the other woman’s weight pressed against her. Greta ran her tongue languidly across the other woman’s lips, silently asking for permission. She smiled into the kiss as she felt Carson grant her access to deepen their connection.
They stood like that for a few minutes, each lost in the other.
When they broke apart, they rested their foreheads against one another, hands still on cheeks.
Still leaning against the table, Carson took a chance and wrapped her arms around the taller woman. She let out the breath of trepidation she didn’t realize she was holding when she felt Greta’s arms encircle her and hold her close.
This was rare, this kind of shared intimacy. Sure, there was an element of fear present – they could both sense it lingering somewhere below the surface of consciousness - but more than that, standing there in the kitchen, just the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms, this felt comfortable, familiar. Pulling back to glance at each other once more, they smiled knowingly before exchanging a quick kiss.
“I like you like this,” the catcher mused softly.
“Like what?”
“Gentle. Loving. Close.”
Greta was sure her heart stopped in that moment. She worked to keep the now-conscious fear silenced. “Yeah? Well, I like you like this, too.” She caught Carson’s eyes and hoped the shorter woman couldn’t see the fear trying to claw its way out. Fortunately for her, Carson turned her attention back to the baking task at hand and invited Greta to follow her hands.
Resuming their previous posture, Carson once again took Greta’s hands in hers and showed her how to gather flour and butter between her fingertips before rubbing them together to incorporate the ingredients. “It should look like a bunch of small peas when you’re done,” Carson instructed. “Like this,” she held a small, pea-sized ball of dough between her thumb and forefinger for the other woman’s inspection.
Returning the small ball to the bowl, she showed Greta what to do a few more times and then removed her hands to let the redhead try it on her own. She watched as Greta’s lithe fingers expertly worked the butter into the flour. Someone’s a quick study. She enjoyed the sight of the mixture falling out of the other woman’s palms and gently landing back in the bowl. It was hypnotizing. I could watch her do this forever, she thought to herself. This time the thought wasn’t as scary, and she allowed it to take up residence in her mind.
When Greta judged the mixture to be ready, she motioned for Carson to check her work. “What do ya think, Coach?”
“Looks great! Now all we need is a few tablespoons of ice water to bind it all together, then we can let the dough rest for a while.” Carson took care of combining the butter-flour mixture with the ice water and this time it was Greta’s turn to be mesmerized.
Watching Carson’s sun-kissed, calloused hands gently knead the mixture together was enchanting. She knew the woman’s hands were strong and capable, but she was used to watching her throw baseballs around a field, not work a dough. She liked the difference – liked getting to know this other side of the woman she was falling in love with. She immediately felt the panic come with the thought.
No, no, no. Please don’t panic. Not now. Greta, breathe. It’s okay. She’s not Dana. This is now - 1943, not then. The girls are out at the movies for at least another hour. No one’s home. No one’s catching you. You’re not in trouble. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Carson sensed the change as soon as it happened and gazed softly at the other woman. “What happened just now, Greta?” Greta couldn’t meet her eyes. Cupping the taller woman’s cheek with her hand to get her attention, Carson quietly called to her. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here. I’ve got you. We’re okay. We’re safe.” Carson quickly moved to wrap her arms around the other woman and was grateful when she felt her lean in rather than pull away. She felt the catch in Greta’s breathing and instinctively knew tears weren’t far behind. She gently rubbed patterns over the taller woman’s back and swayed her from side to side within the confines of her arms. She whisperingly shushed her as they rocked; comforting, not condescending. They stayed like this, connected but quiet, until Carson felt Greta’s breath even out again.
Carson’s questioning gaze found Greta’s eyes. Greta smiled a partial smile, still soft and gentle, but this time it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She placed the lightest kiss on Carson’s forehead, silently pleading with the other woman to allow that to be enough for now. She wasn’t ready to talk just yet and she hoped that her catcher would understand. Carson understood and she didn’t push. Instead, she left her arms wrapped around the other woman, silently offering her a place to stay until she felt safe again, settled.
Wiping her eyes and clearing her throat, Greta surveyed the table, looking for a way out of the intensity of the moment. She found it in the tin of applesauce. She grabbed it and held it up to Carson. “What’re we gonna do with this?”
Understanding the unspoken need, Carson smiled up at her and allowed her arms to fall from around the other woman’s hips. Carson’s eyes twinkled. “Well, you see, this is the star of the show. After the dough for the crust is chilled, we’ll roll it out and use it to line the pie pan, then we’ll poke a bunch of little holes in it with your little fork over there, then blind bake it for a bit, then we’ll fill it with this delectable applesauce. But first we’ve gotta mix the applesauce with the rest of the ingredients to make a custard. A bit more butter, some sugar, a few eggs, the spices, the lemon juice, and the vanilla. Grab another bowl and a whisk and I’ll show you.”
Greta was always grateful for Carson. This moment was no exception. That Carson knew when to push and when to back off was something Greta was learning to be exceptionally grateful for. She smiled at the shorter woman again. This time the smile reached her eyes and lit up her whole face. Tossing her head back with a bright laugh, she wrapped her arms around Carson’s neck and caught her eyes again before moving in to place the most loving kiss she could muster against the other woman’s lips.
When they broke apart, Greta was the first to speak. “Who is this pie even for, Carson?” They laughed together as Carson animatedly rambled through her story about baking a pie for her new pitcher friend, Max.
This? This easy togetherness? This safety? This was something they could both get used to. This really was starting to feel like home.