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“These are gonna taste like charcoal if you don't let me help,” Jon said. “Respectfully.”
“And I was worried that was disrespectful,” Mark said, rolling his eyes.
The holidays were always busy with the residents of 25 Durdam Lane, as they all spent it with each other, even though they went to Jon’s mother’s house. And, of course, that meant being subjected to Mark’s cooking (or baking in this scenario) because he “felt bad not making anything.”
Someone tell them that it’d be a better present to have nothing “edible” from them.
“Hey,” Jon said, picking up the cookie mix box, “It’s not that hard. Besides… I don't feel up to making much this yearrrr…” He trailed off, looking over the ingredients.
“What?”
“What, what ?” Jon put the box down. “I forgot what I said.”
Mark massaged his forehead. “Nothing. Just… I don't need help. Don't worry about it. You can sleep or something.”
Jon arched an eyebrow. “Mark. Respectfully. Your food is inedible every time. Without fail. Love you though.”
Mark scoffed. “It's… NOT…” He knew he was lying to himself.
“Just let me help you. Dork.”
“YOU’RE a dork!”
“STOP FLIRTING IN THE KITCHEN!” came a voice from the living room. Ten bucks to who could guess who said that.
“Fine.”
Jon smirked and stuck his tongue out. “Alrightttt… get out some eggs. And a spoon. And a bowl. You know what eggs are, right?”
“YES! I’m not-”
“Teasing. Idiot. Did you preheat the oven?”
“...”
“I’d have thought you knew how to work an oven too well. Look.”
Jon turned the oven on and set it to the temperature written on the box. He tossed the mix in a bowl and cracked an egg before offering the other for Mark to crack.
Mark did so. It cracked vertically.
He’s certainly something.
He didn't get any shell into the mix, thank God, so he just mixed it himself. Jon figured they could do that much, it wasn't hard. Yeah.
He splashed some mix on his shirt.
Jon could only stare at him. Avoiding eye contact, but still staring. Shock or something went through him.
Mark wiped some dough off his shirt and booped Jon on the nose with it. If Jon could implode, he would. Why would he do that. On what planet did he think it was remotely okay to boop HIM on the nose?
“You’re red,” Mark oh-so-helpfully pointed out.
“I KNOW!” Jon squeezed his hands into fists, “YOU’RE a jerk!”
“Guess it can’t be helped,” Mark sighed dramatically (he did that a lot).
Jon resisted the urge to snatch the bowl out of Mark’s hands. “Now… it looks about right. The batch will probably be smaller now, unless you want shirt cookies.”
Mark handed Jon the bowl. “Then you put em on the sheet.”
Jon did so, if only to make sure there weren't any more possible shirt cookies. And also because he felt he hardly did anything. Even though he did. His mind worked like that.
The cookies (hopefully they’d be edible) were put in the oven and Mark leaned his arms and back against the counter. “... Thanks.”
“Wasn't too hard? You could probably make those by yourself, right?” Jon said, a hint of teasing in his voice.
“You insisted- whatever. C’mere,” Mark removed his weight from the counter.
He tasted faintly of cookie dough when Jon kissed him.