Work Text:
Flour. Sugar. Butter. Vanilla. Chocolate chips.
Ethan gathers the ingredients one by one. Cookies are simple, something he's made many times before – before. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. He's not thinking about that now. He's focusing on what's in front of him.
He follows the steps of the recipe, glancing at the paper only now and then to double-check, most of it committed to memory. Something familiar, something he still knows. That feels good.
He stirs slowly, meditatively, inhaling the scent of vanilla. Sneaks a taste, remembering his mother's childhood warnings about salmonella with a small smile, as he spoons dough onto a pan in perfectly equal, controlled amounts. Then it's into the oven, the timer set for ten minutes.
Cleanup is next, and Ethan takes his time with that too, putting away the ingredients, brushing spilled flower from the counter, running water to clean the mixing bowl and utensils. He checks the cookies now and then, watching with pleasure as the balls of dough melt down and then begin to crisp up. His mouth waters as the familiar, nostalgic smell starts to permeate the kitchen.
The timer dings just as he finishes putting away the dishes, and he smiles to himself – a real, genuine smile – when he pulls out the pan at how perfect the cookies look. Like something out of a magazine or cooking show. Something good he made with his own hands.
Ethan has never been a particularly patient man, and that hasn't changed after everything. He blows on one of the cookies, carefully picks it up with the tips of his fingers, careful as the still-setting treat droops across his hand, melty chocolate chips gleaming. He blows once more, then takes a bite – sighing at the sweetness, the simple pleasure of it.
He still feels out of control a lot of the time, still has no idea what to do with the physical and mental scars his experience in the Baker house left on him, but in a small moment like this, making something, enjoying a small pleasure – yeah. Maybe he can be okay.