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“Hey Eliot,” Hardison says out of nowhere, perching on the edge of Eliot’s freshly cleaned kitchen counter as if he is completely unaware that he’s in the way, “do you know how to bake hamantaschen?”
Eliot blinks. “Hamantaschen?”
“Yeah, they’re the like triangle cookies with the jam-“
“I know what hamantaschen are, Hardison,” Eliot says, setting down his knife to devote his full attention to him. “I didn’t know you were Jewish, though.”
“I’m- it’s complicated. But my nana used to bake them, so… look, it’s really okay, I can-“
“Nah, Hardison, of course I can make you hamantaschen. You got a flavor preference?”
Hardison, who looked like he was about to get up and leave, settles back down on the counter and stretches his legs out. “I mean, apricot’s classic for a reason. Poppyseed’s eh. I had orange marmalade once.”
“Yeah, you would like that, wouldn’t you.” Eliot doesn’t hide his eye roll, but inwardly he’s plotting how he could make an orange soda-themed batch to play to Hardison’s taste buds without being too sickly sweet. “Go, shoo, I’ll check what we have and see if I need to run to the store to pull something together for you.”
“Thanks, man,” Hardison says, bumping shoulders with Eliot as he hops down. “I appreciate you.”
Eliot gets to work, pulling together a variety of flavors, and when Parker drops down from the ceiling several hours later, she’s just in time for the tray of fresh cookies cooling on the counter. She gravitates, predictably, toward the chocolate ones, and snatches one before Eliot can warn her. She probably burns her tongue on the melted chocolate, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
Hardison materializes a moment later, before Eliot has to figure out a way to guard the remaining chocolate, and snatches an orange marmalade. “These are really good,” he mumbles through a mouthful of cookie.
“I tried a bunch of flavors,” Eliot says, pretending he’s not smiling, “so you’ll have to let me know what you think. We have apricot, poppyseed, raspberry, chocolate, orange, and then I experimented with some almond and cheesecake.”
“I can’t say they’re better than my nana’s,” Hardison says, “but…”