August trying to make Christmas cookies or a ginger bread house. He is very bad at it. He checks the recipe every ten seconds, and still gets something wrong.
Huge TY to @dragonqueenslayer6 for the prompt!!! ❤️
August glared at the recipe card like it might bite him. As far as he was concerned, it was written in some ancient, lost language. He couldn’t decipher it to save his life. His plan? To throw everything in a bowl and hope for some miracle - pray that his cookies would be at the very least, edible.
“Alright, okay, let’s see…” August mumbled to himself, reading over the recipe for what felt like the gazillionth time, tracing each line with his finger. He gawked at his chaotic array of ingredients sprawled across the counters. Flour, butter, eggs, chocolate chips, vanilla extract, baking powder, icing sugar, sprinkles - each one looked more alien than the last.
He couldn’t help but marvel at how complicated human food was. Compared to the simplicity of blood, this whole process felt like a science experiment. One that was destined to end in smoke and flames. It was all completely foreign to him. He’d never had to worry about meals—Lucas was self-sufficient enough. The only thing August ever had to handle was the shopping list.
But he really wanted to do this. He wanted to bake the two most important people in his life a sweet treat, a small promise that all their Christmases from now on would be as magical and joyous as this one. His chest tightened at the thought of his friends - how much they had both suffered in their short lives. Marked by so much pain and anguish, so many Christmases spent in loneliness and hardship. Lucas with his years sleeping rough on the streets, alone and afraid. Declan, at the mercy of Vince’s whims, his mind and body twisted beyond his control.
He couldn’t let them down now.
August’s mind momentarily blanked. “Sugar. Sugar, sugar…where would Lucas keep the sugar?”
It felt bizarre, scavenging through his own kitchen as if he were a stranger in his own home. August rifled through the cupboards, pulling out a small glass container. He shook it gently, watching the white granules spill out, and without much thought, assumed it was the sugar he was looking for. The recipe had called for one cup of sugar.
“What are you doing, August?”
August whipped around, startled. Declan stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He wore a loose-knit, sage-green jumper and faded, ripped jeans, a far cry from the broken shell of a man August had rescued from the depths of hell. Declan had gained weight, strength, and a quiet confidence, but August still saw the faint scars on his body—and the ones that lingered in his eyes.
“Uh, nothing-” August stammered, quickly ducking in front of the mixing bowl to hide the incriminating evidence. Declan raised his eyebrow, a knowing smirk on his face urging him to confess. August sighed, resigning and stepping aside, “I was, um…about to make cookies… for you.”
The warmth in Declan’s gaze was unmistakable as he took a delicate step closer, his voice low and touched with appreciation. “For me?” he asked, as if the idea of someone doing something so kind for him was still too much to believe. His eyes flickered to the salt shaker.
“How much salt were you putting in there?”
August blinked down to the white granules, pointing to them with an accusatory finger, “No, that’s sugar-”
Declan chuckled, “Let me help you.” He limped closer, gently guiding August away from the counter with a hand on his shoulder. Reaching for the salt shaker, he swapped it with the sugar container, his smile never fading. “Sugar is in these pots, by the sink,” he explained, “Next to the coffee and tea bags.”
“I have never seen those in my life.”
Declan shook his head, exhaling a soft laugh through his nostrils. August watched as Declan moved along the counter, his movements slow and careful, as if still measuring every step. He felt a rush of admiration - despite everything, Declan had come so far. It was hard to believe this was the same man who lay zombified and catatonic in that bed upstairs.
“Alright, what’s next?” Declan asked, taking charge. August fumbled with the recipe card, scanning the first step.
“‘Beat butter and sugar in a large bowl until creamy’...” August’s voice faltered, his face scrunching in confusion. “'Beat butter'? Like... do I just punch it? What did the butter ever do to deserve that?”
“No,” Declan giggled, “It’s just a term. ‘Beating’ means like, mix it really well. Getting it smooth, so it holds the sugar better when you mix it together.”
“But how do you ‘beat’ butter without... actual beating?” August questioned, still dubious.
“Use a spoon. You have to put a little muscle into it, though” Declan explained, holding the butter up to August.
August blinked at the stick of butter in Declan’s hand, his eyes narrowing. “That seems... unnecessarily complicated for something so simple.”
“Bakings like that sometimes,” Declan replied, smiling. “It’s about making things come together. It’s a little messy, but it works. You just have to trust the process.”
August grabbed the bowl, hesitating for a moment before he started. The eggs and sugar splashed together, but soon enough the mixture began to smooth out. He watched with a sense of triumph as it lightened, the sugar blending in. He stopped, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, and stared at the fluffy mixture.
“That’s looking good! See, you can do it!” Declan cheered. He peeked at the recipe card on the counter, “Now it wants us to add the egg and vanilla.”
August’s face drained of colour, his stomach sinking. The egg. He stared at it, feeling as though it had suddenly become his arch nemesis. There was no way in hell he was going to crack it without getting bits of shell everywhere. These cookies were definitely going to have some extra crunch.
Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the egg, holding it over the bowl. He tapped it against the edge, and the shell cracked wide open—too wide. A shower of small fragments dropped into the mixture. He froze, eyes widening. Declan stepped in, effortlessly scooping out the pieces of shell with practiced ease. “It’s okay,” he reassured. “It happens.”
August let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, feeling both relieved and embarrassed. “Thank you, Declan. I dread to think how these would have turned out without your help.”
“Hey, it’s you doing all the work! I’m just…keeping you on track,” he winked, fishing out a particularly large chunk of shell from the mixture.
Declan always had a way of making the impossible possible, of taking something hopeless and finding the light through. It reminded August of when he first found Declan - on the brink of death, locked in his own mind, and August had fought to bring him back against all odds. And now here Declan was, steady and strong, helping him with something as simple as baking.
August’s thoughts were interrupted when Declan glanced at the recipe card again. “Next up… we need to add the flour and baking powder.”
August nodded, grabbing the containers. He didn’t think twice, just tipping them both into the bowl in one swift motion. The moment the powder hit the batter, it was like a bomb went off. A massive cloud of flour erupted from the bowl, enveloping them both in a thick, white haze. August froze, blinking as the smoke swirled around him, coating his hair and clothes in a fine dust. The kitchen was suddenly a disaster zone, and Declan couldn’t help but let out a stunned gasp.
“Well, that’s one way to do it. Declan chuckled, brushing flour from his eyes.
"Well, that was a bit of a disaster."
Declan shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes. “At least it’ll be a delicious disaster.”
August chuckled, shaking his head. “If these cookies turn out half as good as this mess, we’ll be lucky.”
“One things for sure,” Declan chirped, “they’ll definitely be unforgettable.”
I luffs them, your honour 👩⚖️ I love cheeky, lighthearted Declan SO MUCH. He deserves all the happiness after all the horror he's endured <3333
