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Covers drawn and lights off, Connie finally closes his eyes after hours of procrastination-induced paper writing. It isn’t quite done yet- and by Connie’s standards, that means it’s about half done and doesn’t make any sense- but he promises he’ll finish it in the morning after his first class.
An ungodly crashing comes from the communal kitchen. Just some drunk fuckwad dropping a plate or something. He settles into his pillow and then he hears it. It’s even louder than the first time. Like someone is downstairs trying to rip apart the kitchen piece by piece and it’s putting up a fight. Every scrape and bang pounds itself into Connie’s skull, destroying any chance for peaceful sleep.
He doesn’t know how long he spends lying in bed before finally rolling out, walking out of his dorm, and preparing himself to shank someone.
Connie stands at the door to the communal kitchen. He has a dull as fuck philosophy class in six hours that he cannot fall asleep in one more time lest he actually understand anything he’s supposed to learn. If he doesn’t get to bed soon, this nutjob is going to pay.
And there is a girl standing in front of the stove pulling out rack after rack of cookies, making as much noise as possible. Like, really. She is singing and dancing and dropping the racks against the inside of the oven before banging them down on the stovetop.
Connie rubs his face with an imprecise hand, almost poking himself in the eye. “Do you know what time it is?”
She spins around, almost spraying cookies onto the kitchen floor. “Cookie time!”
He just stares at her. She just keeps on doing her cookie thing, stacking the ones that have cooled and shoving one in her mouth that had not been quite cool enough, based on her flailing and jumping and closed mouth shrieks.
He catches a whiff of the baked goods and his stomach grumbles loudly. The traitor. He should have stopped writing his paper to eat some dinner; he wouldn’t have had to deal with treason from his own body.
“Do you want some cookies, Connie?” She smirks at him, eyebrow quirking up above the line of her bangs.
Connie recognizes her vaguely; she’s the roommate of someone he’s sort of friendly with, and he’s seen her a couple times. They’re always yelling her name, so why can’t he remember-
“Sasha, do you know what fucking time it is?”
She looks at him blankly. Reaching down, she selects a cookie and proffers it to him, hopeful smile lifting the corners of her mouth.
He takes it. It’s the best cookie he has ever eaten.
He takes a seat at the table, immediately burning his fingers on a pan while trying to scrape another cookie off of it. He yelps and pops them into his mouth immediately while Sasha snorts. She flings one that’s had a chance to cool from “molten lava death” to “pleasantly warm and gooey”.
“This is the best cookie I’ve ever eaten.” He picks up another one and shoves that one in his mouth. “No, no, this is the best cookie I’ve ever eaten.”
Sasha turns off the oven, gathers a stack of cookies and sits down at the table next to Connie.
“I couldn’t sleep. Well, I didn’t try to sleep, but I really wanted something sweet and I had ingredients.”
“What, ambrosia and nectar?”
Sasha laughs, starting in on her stack of cookies. Connie watches in awe as she devours the whole tower of baked goods with ferocious efficiency.
“You do know that it’s after 3 AM though, right?”
She nods, cheeks full, and swallows loudly. “That’s why I’m waiting ‘til it’s light out to wash the dishes.”
Connie sighs in relief; he’d been dreading the loading and unloading of the dishwasher, or- god forbid- Sasha hand washing each dish. The cacophony, even hypothetical, makes his head pound something fierce.
When there’s not a crumb remaining, Sasha stacks the baking pans and mixing bowl- or, dumps them onto the counter from her hands would be more accurate- and scribbles a little note that says “SASHA’S MAGICAL COOKIE EXPERIENCE: THE AFTERMATH. WILL WASH @ THE AM :)”
When Connie points out that they are very much in the AM right now and have been for quite a while, Sasha elbows him in the side and crosses out “THE AM”, writing under it “AT A TIME YOU WILL HATE ME LESS.” Connie nods approvingly.
When they leave the kitchen, Connie is about to ask Sasha for her number when she grabs his arm and, with the pen she wrote the note with, writes her phone number. At least, he thinks it’s her phone number. It’s roughly ten digits long and most of them look something like a number.
“So we can make more delicious things happen!” Sasha grins and Connie sees a glint in her eye that he is very much hoping he isn’t imagining.
Connie climbs the stairs back to his dorm, feet growing heavier with each step until he throws the door open and collapses onto his bed. He isn’t sleeping, though.
When he wakes up, Sasha’s kind-of-number is printed against his face. He grins, cheeks obscuring something that looks almost like the letter H and almost like a minimalist landscape.
He’ll be stopping by her and Mikasa’s dorm soon. To find out what her chicken scratch writing says, of course. And maybe challenge her to a bake off.
After all, there can’t only be one magical experience to happen in the common kitchen.
After countless cookies, cupcakes, brownies, pies (an admitted disaster by both parties), and anything else they had wanted to make, Sasha and Connie sit at the table in the common kitchen, dirty pans and bowls stacked on the counter, Connie realizes that he loves this crazy, baked goods fetishizing, very scary roommate having girl.
And, he thinks, groaning while the thought forms because it’s just so lame, that that’s something pretty magical.