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Stede stood in his kitchen and catalogued the damage from his latest baking attempt.
Flour: everywhere.
Sugar: confined to one largish spill.
Cookies: likely to cause a stir if he served them at Alma’s birthday party.
Obviously, he should have consulted Ed much earlier in the process, but they hadn’t actually progressed beyond casual texts. (He’d consulted with Mary about the ethics of dating his Better Baking instructor and she had laughed in his face, which he thought was a bit unnecessary.)
He had entertained an admittedly silly fantasy where he would surprise Ed with his newfound baking prowess. He would make a cake of incomparable beauty and Ed would be amazed. Sonnets would be sung, and so on.
Instead, see above. He ran a hand through his hair in irritation, undoubtedly streaking it with flour, and picked up his phone.
Stede: I believe I’ve made a grave baking error.
Ed: Are you on fire?
Stede: Not currently.
Ed: Is the kitchen on fire?
Stede: Not anymore.
Ed: …
Ed: If nothing is burning it’s probably fixable.
Ed: Or make againable.
Ed: I can come over?
This was not how Stede had imagined getting Ed to his house. He had imagined wine, and flowers, and takeaway that Stede would pretend to have cooked. Ed would see through him, of course, but be charmed anyway. He would make some sort of decadent dessert (here, Stede’s imagination failed him), and they would share it for breakfast the next morning, with tea….
He looked back at his cookie disaster, and then texted Ed his address.
When Ed arrived, he trailed Stede into the kitchen, assuring Stede that the cookies couldn’t be as terrible as Stede thought.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself—” Then he saw them, and his mouth closed so quickly Stede heard his teeth clack.
“See? Disaster.”
Ed didn’t answer, but his body began to tremble slightly from the effort of holding in a laugh. The trembling turned to shaking. The shaking turned to wheezing.
“Oh, let it out before you pull something,” Stede said crossly, and Ed began to sob with helpless laughter.
Stede cycled between amusement and annoyance in the several minutes it took Ed to get himself together. Finally, Ed wiped his eyes and said, “So I’m guessing you weren’t trying to make dick cookies.”
“Of course not, it’s for my daughter's birthday! I thought I’d mastered cakes enough to make one”—here Ed broke in with another wheeze, uncalled for—“but she had her heart set on rainbow cookies.”
“Yeah mate, those are dicks.”
“Well, yes, they look a bit like—”
“They have balls and everything.”
“Those are meant to be clouds.”
“It’s even circumcised.”
Stede buried his head in his hands.
“It’s okay, the party’s tomorrow. Plenty of time to get you sorted out.”
By the end of the night they had a dozen wobbly practice cookies and three dozen perfectly symmetrical, expertly iced rainbows.
The dick cookies they shared over breakfast the next morning, with tea.