Work Text:
Burnt.
Jodie blinked at the tray of cookies before her. They were supposed to be butter cookies and should have been golden yellow, like the color of sunrise she'd seen that morning when she opened the curtain in her kitchen window.
Not... the color of the night.
She eyed her creation, which looked like a crime scene, then squared her shoulders, as if preparing the first question for an interrogation.
"Why? Just... why?"
The cookies, closely resembling meteorites, didn't answer. None of them did. Perhaps even they had no idea about the tragic fate they had suffered inside the oven.
The oven was brand new, by the way, so was the baking tray, mixing bowl and spatula. The ingredients, which she had triple-checked the expiration dates, were also freshly bought from the store a ten-minute drive from her flat. We'll... fifteen, because the road was slippery.
It was that time of the year again. Snowflakes flurried across the sky while some pedestrians stared dreamily upward and catching ice crystals on their palms, like they were filming a scene for a romantic movie. Massive trees wrapped in golden lights popped up in places no one ever remembered planting them. Wreaths hung on almost every door that had looked undecorated just yesterday. Boxes of gifts and tiny toy trains appeared on store windows, and when the children passing by demanded one from their elders, they learned they were not for sale. Even the street sounds changed from hahaha to hohoho.
A week ago, an elderly agent had organized a mini holiday gathering and personally invited every agent in their unit. It was meant to be a simple, fleeting getaway from stress and action. The venue would be the multipurpose room, and every joiner was required to participate in gift exchange whether they liked it or not. The old man had also explicitly told them that a store receipt of fifty dollars must be included inside the gift bag, for some mysterious reason.
"You can bring alcohol," he had added.
The agents narrowed their eyes. Since when had bottles of alcoholic beverages been allowed to take center stage at an internal event on the bureau's property? But before they questioned the agent's sanity, he cleared his throat and choked back a laugh.
"Isopropyl or ethyl alcohol, to be clear. Hygiene first. Disinfect your hands before touching the food."
The food.
Each one had been assigned what to bring. One agent, who was eating a sandwich an hour after finishing lunch, stepped in and suggested they do the assignments via drawing lots. And that's when Jodie's beautiful, slender, lucky fingers drew the roll of paper with simple words written on it:
Homemade butter cookies dipped halfway in melted white chocolate with red and green candy sprinkles. Attach photos for proof.
As if the last line wasn't enough, the first word was underlined. Twice.
It was another agent—old enough to be everyone's uncle and had notoriously guilt-tripped them—who had proposed the idea of adding a little twist, and to not hurt his feelings and dignity, the rest had agreed.
She had never learned how to bake, and didn't own any baking tool either until yesterday evening. But she was still considerably luckier than the one whose jaw dropped when they drew finger sandwiches shaped like Christmas trees, snowmen, gingerbread men, and Santa hats. Or the one whose eyes doubled in size when they picked hot chocolate and paper cups labeled with four handwritten lines of Christmas song lyrics in each one. Or the one who grinned victoriously and felt their world fall apart after milliseconds when they got candy canes with greeting cards containing trivias about themselves from childhood to the present.
Jodie was still sitting motionless in the middle of her spacious kitchen, face to face with the cookies she secretly meant to use to impress someone, or at least to strike up a conversation with him. She didn't know if he liked sweets, but she had imagined taking some of them and offering to him.
Shuichi Akai.
A fellow agent.
A colleague.
Her crush from the office next door.
The first time she'd seen him, she had been instantly mesmerized. His green eyes, despite carrying dark bags bellow that made him looked like he hadn't slept for a week, could make the butterflies in her stomach flutter by just mere glances from them. His long black hair, which made him looked like a hair care product model who occasionally sidelined as a heavy metal rockstar, gave her goosebumps when loose strands of it brushed against her skin. His towering height, his lean and masculine build—every inch of him was overwhelming her.
Their teams had worked together on several operations, and his impressive skills in solving cases had earned him extra crush points for her. But he didn't know, of course. Jodie's mouth was a fully functional word-manufacturing machine, but her feelings for him were a secret she only shared with the blue-eyed blonde in the mirror.
Over time, she'd gotten to know him through small talks over cups of steaming hot coffee and through intelligence gathering.
She'd learned that he was half British, half Japanese; was originally from the UK; had two younger siblings; wore size-forty-three shoes with one-inch heel height; drank black coffee more than he drank water; had been surviving almost half of his lifetime by eating instant noodles; and pursued joining the FBI to investigate his father's disappearance years ago.
He had told her the last one himself. He conversed in monosyllables, somewhat grim and sometimes grumpy, and it had her wondering why he spoke to her freely sometimes—something he never did to their other colleagues. Or at least, that was how it seemed to her.
They say one should not judge a book by its cover. But with his deathly glare and perpetually tight lips combined, others described him as someone living his own world. He rarely mingled; he preferred to stand in corners where he didn't look like a federal agent at all, but someone who would suddenly draw a weapon and say "Give me your bag and jewelries if you value your life."
But he was devilishly striking, she was sure half of the building couldn't argue with that. His looks were just a bonus, anyway. The fact that he was actually polite and had a good sense of humor was what really had her crushing on him. At first it was just a faint tingling sensation in her belly, a fondness toward him she couldn't deny. Over time, her feelings for him blossomed into something humans defined as "A feeling you feel when you've felt something you've never felt before." Yes, that four-letter word everyone said the world needs now.
If Shuichi Akai had a thousand admirers, she was one of them. If he had ten, she was still one of them. If he had none, then Jodie Starling didn't exist in this world.
Jodie frowned at the poor cookies she'd been actually frowning at for the last two hours. How was she supposed to attend a social event with a jar full of evidence from an arson case and offer a plateful to him and say, "Agent Akai, I made these. Try some."
Her mind now was divided into two parts: first, wash the baking tools, preheat the oven, mix the ingredients, and blame the recipe if the cookies turned into charcoal again; second, put on her winter coat, drive down the street, head to the bakery that sells the tastiest cookies in town, and use the white chocolate she at least had managed to melt without burning the kitchen down.
The second option won. By a landslide.
After a one-hour-twenty-five-minute Christmas medley and eleven repeats of All I Want for Christmas is You, everything was packed and ready. She didn't take photos, instead, decided to bring the cookies that died in the line of duty. She was a law enforcer, she must be brave—brave enough to admit that she had lost to baked goods. Maybe it wouldn't hurt if she added that the oven simply hadn't been cooperative.
After all, the twists were hilariously insane she doubt she was the only one who failed at the assignment. Right. She couldn't be the only one.
When she walked into the room, she smelled the delightful aroma of food and drinks and the gut feeling that something was wrong. Shuichi hadn't arrived yet. But that was not what made her feel uneasy. Everyone spoke of the hardships and obstacles they'd been through, but not a single one said they'd failed. Not a single one but—
"Agent Starling!"
Before she could hide her face behind her plaid scarf, the agent whose braincells was responsible for the food assignment twists, came forward and greeted her. "Happy Holidays."
Jodie smiled. Warmly. Nervously. "Happy Holidays."
"Did I ever mention that my favorite food growing up was butter cookies? I can't wait to taste one from you, Jodie," declared another agent.
Jodie smiled again. She always did.
Everyone from their unit arrived one by one, with Shuichi being the last to walk into the room, holding a cup of coffee he could never live without. Jodie stole a glance at him and the first thing she noticed, of course, was how he looked ridiculously good in a plain dark gray sweater, his hair tied back without the knitted hat she presumed must have had accompanied him through life's ups and downs. Next, naturally, she wondered what he had picked. He was carrying two bags; one was sealed (probably the gift), the other one was wide and shallow—most likely the assigned food.
Three loud claps and two cheerful "Alrights" silenced the murmurs and laughter, but not the radio living its life at the corner of the room, humming a tune all too familiar to Jodie. She had heard that tune four billion times a long time ago. Or maybe just recently.
I don't want a lot for Christmas
The veteran agent cleared his throat. "Happy Holidays everyone. It's a really heartwarming scene to see all of us gathered here tonight. And you all look gorgeous tonight by the way…"
There is just one thing I need
"...You may put your gifts over that table. Yes, the one with the gold cloth, courtesy of yours truly. I hope no one forgot the instruction I've made clear about a week ago. And I hope you didn't shoot it in a wrong bag."
I don't care about the presents
"…I must admit that at my age, I'm still excited to open gifts. I bet you all are, as well. But we'll save the unpacking of those delightfully mysterious bags and boxes for later. Now... show us what you got."
Underneath the Christmas tree
The room was then filled with laughter and shared stories of kitchen mishaps, victories, and childhood tales. Jodie didn't know what happened after that. All she knew was that the long table they were gathered around at was plain white before. Now it was halfway full of food flavored with success and fulfillment.
Her eyes wandered around in two spots again. First, at Shuichi, who looked unreadable and sleep deprived as always. It's her ninety-fourth glance at him tonight. Second, at her seat, no, at the bag, where her fallen soldiers were laid to rest.
She gripped the jar tightly against her chest when her colleagues looked mischievously at her. Now it was her turn.
"Well… I guess... I was meant for guns and cuffs, not for whisks and rolling pins." Jodie began. One stifled a laugh, while another one looked at her condolingly.
"I tried. Really, I did. But it was a disaster. So... here, my store-bought cookies. But I prepared the white chocolate dipping and the sprinkles. I guess I've done at least a quarter of the assignment?"
Everyone nodded and smiled. It seemed they didn't forget that it was the season to be merry and bright. And investigative.
"It was said in your note to attach photos for proof, right? Did you take any? How do we know you really tried?" One of the agents asked. Jodie knew that one. Friendly, bubbly, approachable. Maybe they noticed how embarrassed she was and didn't really mean to be mean, just wanted to lighten the mood.
She smiled, relieved but still embarrassed. She thanked herself she didn't use the burnt cookies for recreational purposes by shooting them in the dustbin one by one like basketballs and instead took them with her as the strongest evidence to clear her of any accusation.
"I didn't take photos. But I brought the burnt cookies. There—"
Shuichi Akai approached the table, chewing something they didn't know what exactly and holding a zip lock bag like it was a falsely accused suspect needing his help. Everything fell silent, except for the crunchy sound of his teeth grinding Jodie's abstract masterpiece. And yes, the radio also.
I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
The FBI's ace sniper continued chewing, oblivious to the fact that the whole unit was staring at him like he was defusing a bomb with his teeth. He put the bag of casualties down on the table, looked briefly at Jodie—who looked back at him like her entire career depended on his verdict, then at nowhere in particular.
"It's... edible. Still tastes good and... Agent Starling here put effort into making them. Right?"
A horde of butterflies flew around frantically. Not inside the room.
The elderly agent cleared his throat and clapped his hands, swaying, dancing, whatever he was doing. Despite his massive and imposing build, he looked like a mischievous elf. "Make my wish come true..."
The rest didn't need a cue; they knew what to do next. Three female agents circled Jodie, whose cheeks burned a red (not black) brighter than the Christmas lights behind her. The room erupted into a full, belted chorus:
"Baby, all I want for Christmas is you—!"