Archive of Our Own ^beta

Then there comes one Thanksgiving where his aunt, always in charge of pies, is knocked out with the flu. It sends the entire family into utter chaos, and Lance's grandmother hands him a scribbled list, grabs his face in her hands, and says a prayer like she's sending him off to war. There isn't any room to try to get it handled at home, but luckily Pidge saves the day and lets him invade her family's house. "Why didn't you just buy the premade crusts," Pidge asks, sitting on the counter and watching him furiously cut shortening into flour. Lance looks up at her like she suggested he trip one of his siblings on the way up to take communion—a certain death sentence.

Somehow he manages, just in the nick of time and without holding back the Holts' own cooking schedule, to get all six of the demanded pies finished and back to his house. He crosses himself as he walks away from the dessert table, and his oldest brother pats him on the shoulder. "Valliant effort, hermano."

Lance doesn't expect anything more than that. He knows everyone will be appreciative that he stepped up and tried his best, but no one is going to think these are any good. One of his uncles is the first to venture over, because he can't resist a slice of apple pie, even bad apple pie. But then his face lights up, and he asks, "Lance, where in the hell did you find a place to buy these on Thanksgiving day?"

"I didn't," Lance says, his tone more questioning. "I made them."

His uncle gapes and grabs Lance's father by his sleeve. "Go," he demands. "Go over there and taste what your son has created."

That gets everyone's attention, and suddenly the whole family is carving up slices of the different pies and singing praises. "Did Pidge help you make these," his sister asks.

"If by help you mean sat on the counter and mocked me when I spilled flour all over the floor, yeah, she helped."

"Her parents?"

"No, I did it all myself," Lance says.

"What recipe did you use," his mother asks. "Selena's do not taste like this."

"Um, I used her filling ones, but the crust one, I found a few different ones on the internet and kind of mashed them together," Lance says with a shrug.

"The crust," several people exclaim at once.

"That's what it is," his uncle says around a mouthful. "This crust is amazing."

"Yeah, so who's going to break the news to your wife that her role as pie queen has been usurped?"

Lance thinks that's an insane notion—he's sixteen; he does not want to have that much responsibility when he could be watching the Macy's Parade and counting down the minutes until it's acceptable to start watching Christmas movies—but it does give him a pretty decent ego boost, enough that he decides to try making another pie to thank the Holts for letting him stage a hostile takeover of their kitchen.

His mom and a neighbor down the street are in the middle of Niceness Battle, and vegetables from the garden in the backyard have been traded for fresh blueberries from the neighbor's bush. They have more blueberries than they could ever possibly use—which is really saying something, considering the number of people in the house—so Lance does some digging and finds a recipe that has good reviews.

He's halfway over to the Holts, the smell of the pie thick in the air and the recipe playing through his head, when he starts to panic that did he put too much cinnamon in? What did the recipe actually say? It was somewhere in the teaspoon range, wasn't it? Did he use teaspoons? He'd already had the tablespoon out for the cornstarch. Did he accidentally use that instead?

His body moves on autopilot, and he doesn’t really register through the panic that one of the poor unsuspecting Holts is going to try this pie and it's going to turn into the cinnamon challenge on them that he's arrived and knocked on the door until Pidge is snapping impatiently under his nose.

"You made another one," Pidge says, leading him into the house. "Is this punishment for the cranberry debate? Is that why you're bringing us ugly, probably poisoned pie?"

"Katie," Mrs. Holt scolds. "Don't be rude."

"It is kind of ugly," Matt comments. Lance agrees. He has no idea how to make the crust look nice and even, let alone all that fancy frill work. And God help him with that lattice crap.

"Hey, you can work with ugly," Dr. Holt says, rubbing his hands together. "And I'm pretty sure we've got some ice cream in the freezer. Katie, go get us some plates."

"Your funeral," Pidge mutters. Mrs. Holt takes a modest piece. Dr. Holt—enthusiastic and too nice—and Matt—a bottomless pit—take nearly half the pie between them. They start eating, and the noise Matt makes is so obscene that Pidge and Mrs. Holt both immediately reach out to smack at his arm.

"Lance," Dr. Holt says, pulling a much more generous chunk of the pie onto his spoon. "Lance, this is amazing. You've been holding out on us."

Lance fiddles with the drawstrings on his hoodie. "Actually, those pies I made yesterday were the first ones I've ever done, so—“

"You're shitting me," Matt says, spraying crumbs.

"It's actually good?" Pidge's expression is disbelieving as she reaches for her brother's plate.

He holds it up over her head. "Get your own, short stack." Pidge kicks his shin but hurries off to grab her own plate.

"Really, Lance," Dr. Holt says. He's down to only maybe two bites left. "This is honestly one of the best pies I've ever had in my life."

Pidge actually telling him that he made something good—Lance thinks it causes Pidge actual, physical pain to compliment him in any way—sort of opens the floodgates, and Lance starts trying new things. He collects recipes from his grandmothers’ old boxes—some things traditional, some traded with various neighbors over the years—and suddenly too much of his allowance money is being spent on flour and sugar.

“You considering turning this into a career,” his father asks one day, watching the oven greedily. Lance has figured out soft pretzels, and they barely last an hour around the house.

“No,” Lance scoffs, closing the oven back up. “Dad, come on, this is—“

“You’re very good at it, Lance,” his dad says. “You could do it if you want to.”

He does think about it for a while. He’s never actually gotten a bad review from anyone about what he makes, even the experiments. He looks into what it takes to open up a bakery, and it’s so much work. Lance isn’t scared of hard work. He’s basically a walking pile of ADHD, and he knows he’s smart, but he has to work his ass off for his school work to reflect that.

It would probably be amazing to have his own place. He would probably love it, even if the hours are all wacked out. But the idea that it would all be on him, his name on the building, everything riding or dying based on his ability, that’s terrifying.

And he doesn’t want this to be terrifying.

``

Hunk has been a part of the student center tutoring program for two years now, and he has yet to have one single complaint about how much Coran likes to throw parties for them. He says they all work twice as hard as other students—not just focusing on their own work but others’ as well to help them through it—so they deserve to party twice as hard.

Keith doesn’t think that’s right, but Hunk has a hard time listening to the opinions of a person that he has to bodily carry out of the gym three nights a week to make sure he eats and sleeps just the bare minimum to keep himself alive.

The Halloween party is always a welcome distraction. It’s right after midterms, and you can always tell who’s had a really rough run of it. Shay is already lying on the couch with Nyma, their cups carefully placed out of reach on the nearby table.

Hunk accepts a refill from Coran—he has no idea what’s in it, but it tastes like lollipops, so he figures it’s horribly dangerous—and heads over to where Shiro is readjusting the Pokémon trainer hat on Keith’s head. “Will you cut it out,” Keith snaps, slapping furiously at Shiro’s hands.

“Well, when you refuse to wear a costume on your own, I have to improvise,” Shiro says. “What do you think, Hunk?”

“Masterpiece,” Hunk says, taking a picture of Keith’s scowling face. They’ve been here just about an hour, and Shiro has already wrestled him into the Pokémon hat, an Iron Man glove, a Ghostbusters backpack, and a Flavor Flav clock. “What’s he supposed to be?”

“I figure that out in a few more beers,” Shiro says.

“I don’t have to take this from the man who has dressed up as the Winter Soldier every year since the movie came out,” Keith says.

“When someone comes up with a cooler one-armed superhero, I will consider changing things up,” Shiro says.

They make their way over to the food table and start loading up plates. “You’re eating some of this too,” Hunk tells Keith, looking back and forth between his two plates—both piled high—and Keith’s meager slice of pizza and one cookie.

Between the three of them, they probably grabbed enough to sample everything on the table. After some pizza, a couple of pigs in a blanket that look like mummies, and a candy corn shaped sugar cookie, Hunk asks of Shiro, “What’s that?”

“Um, pumpkin bread, I think,” Shiro says. “Haven’t tried it yet.” He nudges the plate in Hunk’s direction, who needs no further prompting to break a chunk off for himself.

He is not prepared for the change of life he experiences.

Hunk has always been kind of on the fence about pumpkin. There’s a blood feud that’s been going on in his house since before he can remember. His dad hates the stuff and scoffs and complains about how unnecessary it is every year. His stepmom, on the other hand, lives and breathes for the first day of September. The second Starbucks puts out the PSL, she is in line. She has a Pinterest board filled with recipes about pumpkin cheesecakes and French toast and buttercream icing and smoothies, and he’s pretty sure he even saw one about an alfredo sauce buried in there.

But this bread—holy shit, this bread! Everything about it is perfection, the flavors, the consistency. It’s like he honest to God took a bite out of Fall.

“You ok, buddy,” Shiro asks.

“Eat that right now,” Hunk demands, still feeling dazed.

Shiro arches a brow, but breaks the remainder of the slice in half and hands the other bit to Keith. They both test it and then look about as impressed as Hunk. “Whoa, that’s good.”

“Oh my God,” Hunk moans, dragging his hand down his face as he takes another bite. “I need this in my life for the rest of forever.”

Hunk has to ask Coran about this, but just as quickly as all his hopes and dreams were propped up, they are soon dashed again. “I didn’t see who brought it in,” Coran says. “Did have a bite myself, and I considered taking the whole thing back to my office.”

“I need to know who brought that,” Hunk says.

“Yeah, and where they got it from,” Shiro agrees. “I wouldn’t mind having that around for breakfast for a week.”

“No way was that store bought or even bakery bought,” Hunk says. “No, some amazing asshole crafted that with their bare hands, and I must know who.” 

Hunk can’t let the bread go. He’s probably annoying Keith and Shiro, but he can’t get it out of his head. He wants to shake the hand of the person who made it and buy the recipe off them. Coran continues to claim he has no idea who brought it in, so Hunk starts asking around. He even stoops to talking to Rolo, and that is just the worst. But no one seems to know anything about who brought it, although the general consensus is that it was the best pumpkin bread any of them had ever tasted.

“Did we all have a massive group hallucination,” Hunk wails.

“You’re getting obsessed,” Keith says. “I’m kind of worried.”

Shiro grins. “I think it’s starting to sound like the plot of a romcom.” He makes a dramatic arc with his hands. “He didn’t know their name or their face. All he knew was their pumpkin bread. I’d watch that movie.”

“You’re watching that movie right now,” Keith grumbles. “Why don’t you just leave a notice up on the board? I mean, presumably the person who brought it works here, so they’re bound to see it at some point.”

“Oh my God, why didn’t you come up with that sooner,” Hunk cries, grabbing Keith into a hug.

It takes a week before there’s a response on the note Hunk pins to the corkboard that reads, “The name’s Lance. What’ll you give me for it? ;)”

Hunk answers back, “My heart, my soul, and my first born child.”

And so the now slightly less mysterious Lance writes down his tutoring schedule, and Hunk has never been so ready for a weekend to come to an end and a Tuesday afternoon to get here faster.

``

By Tuesday afternoon, Lance has given away his pumpkin bread recipe to six other people besides the one who left the note on the board. Coran, who he only met in passing at the beginning of the year when Allura forced him to sign up for the tutoring program, stops by with offers to buy loaves off him for the rest of the season.

“Apparently you’ve been a huge hit and something of a mystery around here since Halloween,” Allura says over her uncle’s shoulder. “If you had ever told me you baked, I could have cleared this up immediately.”

“Allura, you’ve been stuffing yourself full of my pretzel bites at every single one of those gab sessions you have with Pidge,” Lance says.

“You made those,” Allura yells, forgetting for a moment that students around them are trying to study. “She never said!”

Lance only has one student actually scheduled for his block that day, which leaves him some extra time to knock out his own work while he’s still focused in. He ends up being so engrossed in his problem set that he doesn’t notice the person standing in the doorway until that person taps him on the shoulder.

It scares Lance half to fucking death, and he jumps so violently that he scatters all his papers. “Oh shit, sorry,” the other guy apologizes, his hands tucked up under his chin while Lance clutches at his chest. “Are you ok,” he asks, when it’s been a moment and Lance still hasn’t moved. “You’re not actually having a heart attack, are you?”

“Not actually,” Lance says. He slumps and heaves out a loud sigh. “But I think that honestly took ten years off my life. You here for the pumpkin bread recipe?”

“Uh, yeah,” the guy says. “I’ve been freaking out about it since the Halloween party. Seriously, man, that was the best bread I’ve ever had, pumpkin or otherwise. How long have you been making it?”

“Five, six years maybe,” Lance says. “A friend of mine doesn’t like to admit how basic she is, but I started making it for her so she could get her fall on.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking I’m going to give it a try over Thanksgiving and blow my stepmom’s mind,” he says. “I’m Hunk, by the way.”  He sticks out a hand.

Lance accepts it and takes a moment to look Hunk up and down. He’s just a bit taller than Lance, but he’s built like a brick house with a big, soft tummy. His smile is sweet and friendly, and his nose is a big button that Lance has to actively tell himself he cannot just reach out and boop. Even though he really wants to boop it.

“Hunk indeed,” Lance says, and even to his own horribly low standards for pickup lines, that is pretty bad.

Hunk turns red from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck. He squirms and stammers a bit. “Sorry,” Lance says hurriedly. “Sorry. That was bad. Not well thought out at all.”

Hunk laughs a bit, and Lance can tell he’s definitely not put off by it at all, just caught off guard. “Anyway, you’re here for a recipe,” Lance says, getting back onto the real subject at hand. He pulls up the email he had sent to Coran earlier and hits print.

“Yeah,” Hunk says, following him over to the printer. “Yeah, it was really good. I already said that, but still. Emphasis. Do you bake a lot?”

“Mostly just for stress relief,” Lance says. “I don’t really eat much of what I make. But apparently all you people here are monsters, so that’s going to be awesome for me. Like I brought in some cookies at the start of the semester. They were gone before my session was over.”

“Wait,” Hunk says. “The white and normal chocolate chips? You made those?” Lance nods. “Dude, I think I had seven of them. Holy shit.”

“Actually there were three different kinds of chocolate in those,” Lance says, and Hunk looks distressed in the best possible way. Lance laughs. “You want that recipe too?”

“I can’t make cookies to save my life,” Hunk says, accepting the sheet of paper. “Actually, even this is going to give me hell.”

“It’s baking,” Lance says, shrugging. “I mean, there’s some give and take in there, but it’s supposed to be like the science of cooking or whatever. You just follow the instructions and don’t have to wing anything.”

“If only,” Hunk says. “I’m getting a masters in mechanical engineering, but I can’t even make those pre-done Toll House things come out right.”

“That’s sad,” Lance says.

“What’s even sadder is that I’m actually a really good cook,” Hunk says. “I just can’t bake so well.”

“Dude, what the hell,” Lance cries, and Allura sticks her head over a cubicle and shushes him violently. Lance then remembers that they’re still in the tutoring center and that people are trying to get work done, but he really wants to keep talking to Hunk. “Um, hey, I don’t have anything else on my schedule,” he says. “You wanna grab some coffee, maybe? I really feel like I need an explanation as to how someone can cook but can’t bake.”

Lance is ready to just go to the Starbucks in the student center, but Hunk brings him to this place right off campus. Lance has seen it before but never gone in, and he thinks he’s going to have to bake another batch of those cookies just for Hunk in thanks because this latte is life changing.  

They stay later than they should, picking things off the menu and talking about how they each got into food. Hunk’s father was a chef in a restaurant when his family still lived in Hawaii, but he opened his own when they moved to the mainland. Lance nearly throws himself from his chair when Hunk proudly proclaims that he sees no problem at all with making fried rice with Spam in it. “You’ve left Hawaii,” Lance cries. “The war is over. You don’t have to do that to yourself anymore.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Spam,” Hunk protests. He waves part of the croissant sandwich they’re sharing at Lance and says, “We could remake this sandwich with it—you do the bread, of course—and, yeah, it would taste a little different, but not that bad.”

“I am not going through the hell of making croissants just to have you ruin them with Spam,” Lance says.

“They hard,” Hunk asks.

“They are hell,” Lance says dramatically. “I don’t know what the hell I did wrong on the first batch I tried, but they were drowning in butter. Literally drowning. I had to take them out halfway through and pour the lake of melted butter off the tray. Croissants are a once a year excursion now. Christmas morning. Blanche gets a hell of a workout.”

At Hunk’s confused look, he adds, “My sourdough. I named her Blanche.”

“Like from Golden Girls?”

“Honestly, I see her as more a Bea Arthur type, but Blanche is a good old lady’s name,” Lance says. “It gets the point across.”

“So you go through all this trouble to make so many different things, and you don’t even eat it,” Hunk asks. “Man, I do my best to freaking gorge.” He pats at his stomach.

“I don’t eat the sweets,” Lance says. “But the bread I’ll go to town on. I finally had to separate my bread board on Pinterest into more specified parts. It was getting overwhelming.”  

“You’re a better person than me,” Hunk says. “Mine has absolutely zero organization.”

Lance shakes his head. “My Adderall is a better person than us both.”

`` 

[Lance]: ur being recruited

[Hunk]: what for?

[Lance]: to cook me dinner while I make four billion cookies and cupcakes for coran’s party

[Hunk]: looooool u shouldn’t have let him find out you can bake

[Lance]: it’s my deepest regret. now get over here and cook me some red meat ;) 

``

“Where’s Pidge,” Hunk asks as he wrestles his way into Lance’s apartment, grocery bags hanging from his elbows.

“The gremlin will not emerge from the depths of the stacks until the new year,” Lance yells over the mixer.

“If she doesn’t show up to the party, Coran’s feelings will be hurt,” Hunk says.

“Allura already said she’s sending Shiro in after her,” Lance says. “Pidge has never said no to Shiro once in her entire life.”

They fall into an easy routine around the kitchen, Lance zipping all over the place while Hunk hovers close to the stove. They’ve only known each other for a little over month, but everything about being friends with Lance is easy. Even the super huge crush Hunk has on him doesn’t feel awkward at all. 

“Spicy steak fries or garlic parm,” Hunk asks over his shoulder.

“Picante,” Lance answers, his nose almost in the icing bowl as he adds food coloring. He grumbles something else in Spanish—Hunk catches the word rojo, so he figures Lance is probably just cursing the exact shade he’s looking for. He usually keeps up a steady stream of complaints or compliments to his food as he’s making it. 

Lance is almost incapable of shutting up, and although he can see how that might annoy some people—Keith in particular sometimes looks like he’s half a second away from duct taping Lance’s mouth shut—Hunk could listen to Lance talk about nothing forever. It’s sappy and dumb, but Lance just makes Hunk feel comfortable. Even the way Lance’s moods and attention can turn on a dime—something that would normally send Hunk’s anxiety levels through the roof, because Lance always drags whoever is in the vicinity right along with him—doesn’t bother him. It just easily fits into the way Lance is, and Hunk adapts without even considering it. 

Hunk has never fallen this hard or fast for someone. He usually moves slow, takes his time, makes sure he’s really feeling a certain way and is ready to feel that way, but with Lance, he just took one look at that scrawny beanpole overdramatically clutching at his pearls and dove right in. He’s hung out with Lance almost every day since meeting him, even days when he really didn’t have the time, because the few times that he doesn’t see Lance at least in quick passing makes the entire day feel wrong and off. 

Once the fries are seasoned, the asparagus grilled, and the steaks have had a chance to sit, Hunk loads up their plates and puts them on the table. “Ok, buddy,” he calls, “take a break.” 

“Run away with us for the summer; let’s go upstate,” Lance starts to sing. 

“No,” Hunk laughs. “We aren’t in musical theater hour. Put down the piping bag before all this gets cold. Come sit down.”

Lance grins and yells, “John, you fat mother—“

Hunk leaps across the kitchen and grabs Lance in a headlock, his hand slapped over Lance’s mouth. “Seriously, stop it,” he says, but he’s still laughing. 

“Dude, you gave me two openings,” Lance says, pulling his hand away and letting himself be led over to a chair. 

“You’re such a nerd,” Hunk says. 

“You say like you don’t jam equally as hard when I put the soundtrack on,” Lance retorts. 

They eat quickly, and then Lance puts Hunk on duty glazing cookies while he pours batter into the cupcake tins. Hunk agrees after receiving a promise from Lance that he will be permitted to decorate five gingerbread men in any way he sees fit, no criticism or micromanaging allowed. 

“Last time I agreed to that, my nephews made them into sandwiches,” Lance says cautiously. 

“Ooh, that’s awesome,” Hunk says. 

“No, it wasn’t,” Lance says, pulling out his phone and scrolling back for a picture. “It was diabetes in one sitting.” 

Hunk watches the whole thing, but he still isn’t sure how Lance manages to bake and decorate all the cookies and cupcakes—and a last minute set of cakepops because he found some extra sticks in a drawer—he promised Coran for tomorrow’s party. “Are you sure you don’t want to open a bakery,” Hunk asks. “Because I think if you just had like two or three other people, you could take over the world. You could call it the Angry Catholic Bakery, and part of the experience is customers get to listen to you blaspheme at cheesecakes.” 

“You know I don’t wake before nine without an act of God,” Lance says. He picks up one of the cupcakes—the icing made to look like Santa’s hat—and hands it over. “Here you go. Extra sweetness for my sweetness in thanks for making me dinner.” 

“Oh my God, you’re horrible,” Hunk says, but his stomach still flips a little bit. 

“You love it,” Lance says. 

“Weirdly, I do,” Hunk admits, and Lance turns a little bit red. A heavy not really awkward but still something silence falls over them, and Hunk takes a huge bite of the cupcake to distract himself. It’s perfect, just like everything else Lance makes. He grins around the mouthful, making a few pleased noises. 

There’s a flash of relief in Lance’s eyes. Hunk thinks it’s adorable that despite the ego on that kid, he still looks a little unsure of his creations until Hunk gives him confirmation that it’s amazing. 

“Don’t choke on it,” Lance says, and in retaliation, Hunk pops the rest of the cupcake into his mouth. “Dude, you’re a mess,” Lance laughs, and he reaches out to wipe away icing from the tip of Hunk’s nose. 

Hunk’s heart leaps up into his throat. Lance is standing so close. He wasn’t that close when he handed Hunk the cupcake. Hunk can’t tell if time is slowing down or if Lance is really just moving that slowly, that deliberately, as his thumb clears away the icing. His fingers brush against Hunk’s cheek, and yeah, Hunk isn’t imagining it; Lance is definitely lingering there. 

Hunk stares at Lance, and Lance stares back, his eyes just as wide, like he can’t really believe he’s doing this either. He pulls his hand away slowly, and the icing is still there on his thumb, and God, Hunk wants to lick it off him. But no, no, that would be way too much. He can’t do that. 

Despite direct orders from his brain, his body moves on its own, and before he even realizes it, he’s grabbed Lance’s face in his hands and is kissing him. 

After about three seconds, his brain reboots and realizes what he’s doing, and Hunk pulls back. Lance stares at him with wide eyes, his chest heaving, and then he jumps forward just as Hunk pulls him back in. Lance is a greedy, desperate kisser, and Hunk immediately loves it. Lance’s hands are everywhere, at the back of his neck, sliding through his hair, pulling at his shirt. 

“Oh my God, I’ve wanted to do that for forever,” Lance mutters when they finally pull back again.

Hunk drops his forehead to rest against Lance’s. He smiles, his thumbs rubbing light circles against Lance’s bony hips. “Dude, we’ve only known each other like two months.”

“Since day one, Hunk,” Lance says firmly, his hands back in Hunk’s hair. Hunk really likes them there. “So, is this a thing now, because I’d really like for this to be a thing.” 

Hunk kisses him again, long and slow. “Just so you know, Shiro already thinks we’re a romcom because of the pumpkin bread note,” he says. 

“Want to do a big declaration at the party tomorrow and really seal it for him? I know for a fact Coran’s putting up a bunch of mistletoe to catch Shiro and Allura. We can get to it first and one up them,” Lance suggests. 

Hunk laughs. “Everything’s a competition with you.”

“Look, Shiro and Allura are going to have babies one day that will conquer the world based on looks alone. If they’re the beautiful ones, then we need to be the cute ones.” He boops Hunk’s nose with a happy grin. “The cutest ones.” 

“You’re a dork,” Hunk says. 

“Your dork,” Lance says, and Hunk kisses him, unbelieving but very pleased to be in love with this idiot.