Dinnertime
Inspired by @cajunandfire's post about Diana and 47 cooking a Sunday dinner together at the Freelancer mansion, I bring you this short, sweet ficlet. (Because my brain refused to let me continue working on like sugar (melting into black tea) until I had put this to digital paper. (Or, well, physical paper first, actually.)
Rated T for one singular suggestive sentence. No warnings apply except to brush your teeth properly after this one because this is sweet.
--
Diana sighed, shutting her laptop down with a satisfied smile. She didn't usually work on Sundays, not because she was a devout Christian, but moreso because Sundays were the one day she and 47 tried to keep completely free of work plans, so they could do whatever they wanted, be it together or apart. However, 47 had only just returned from a showdown this morning, and she had needed to deal with the paperwork ASAP. She was lucky he didn't mind, spending his afternoon catching up on some home maintenance himself. But when she had heard the shower be turned on around ten minutes ago, she knew she wanted to make haste: he was done, and would be waiting for her downstairs.
As Diana descended the stairs, the music playing in the kitchen slowly became audible. 47 had turned on a smooth jazz playlist she recognised as being one of her personal favourites. She found him in the kitchen, pouring a bottle of red into the decanter.
"Hello, my love," she greeted him. He didn't pretend not to have noticed her approach, with his enhanced instincts they both knew he sensed her presence throughout the entire home. If it had been anyone else, it would have been unnerving, but with 47, Diana just felt protected.
"Just in time," he replied, reaching out for her. She walked up to him and learnt into his side, fitting perfectly beneath his outstretched arm which he lowered and wrapped around her waist.
"You smell lovely," Diana commented. She could smell her own shower gel on his skin, a flowery bouquet instead of his personal pine-scented one. 47 blushed.
"I ran out of mine; we'll have to get some more in town tomorrow."
"I suppose that's my fault, due to all the showers I've been forcing you to take with me recently," Diana replied, chuckling softly. She had some very fond memories of their shared showers and baths, and wasn't about to stop inviting him.
"I don't mind." 47 nodded towards the kitchen counter, where he had begun to lay out potatoes, carrots and cauliflower. "Feeling like beef or chicken?"
"Hm, chicken," Diana decided. As 47 walked over to the fridge to retrieve the chicken they had bought last week for this exact purpose, a Sunday roast, Diana took a chef's knife from the knife block and began prepping the vegetables and potatoes. They worked in a comfortable silence together. She didn't have to tell him about the bureaucratic completion of this most recent contract; he trusted her to inform him of anything worth knowing. Likewise, she knew that he would show her what he had accomplished today after dinner -- she knew he had been wanting to finish painting the shed.
47 placed the chicken into the oven, Diana setting aside the sheet pan of potatoes and vegetables until it was time to roast those as well. In the meantime, the sound system began playing a Grover Washington, Jr. song, and Diana nudged 47 with a soft smile.
"Dance with me?" She bit down softly on her bottom lip and looked up at him, knowing he couldn't resist giving into her demands when she requested something like this. Chuckling, as he knew exactly what she was doing, 47 took her into his arms, and together they swayed to the music.
It was funny, Diana mused as they danced, going from such a dark and gloomy world of assassination and shadow clients and absolutely sinister organisations to now standing barefoot in the kitchen of the home they shared, a homemade dinner in the oven, and feeling just so ridiculously happy.
Some days she had trouble believing this was really her life.
Luckily, 47 never minded having to remind her.
