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katmarajadeTitle: Gift of Crumbs
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
katmarajade
Written for:oddmonster
Pairing: Scotty/Chekov
Rating: R
Word Count: 665
Prompt: crumbs in the bed sheets
Summary: Chekov tries to make homemade shortbread for Scotty on Christmas. It doesn't turn out quite as well as they might have hoped.
Scotty was reading in bed when Chekov bounded into their room with an over-sized grin and a poorly-wrapped package with a red bow on top.
"Merry Christmas!" Chekov exclaimed, excitedly thrusting the box into Scotty's hands. Scotty fumbled, trying to drop his papers and grab onto the gift at the same time.
"What is this?" he asked, knowing full well that the delay would make Chekov squirm in ill-disguised impatience and enjoying every second of the adorably pursed lips and flashing green eyes.
"A Christmas present, obviously. Why else would it have a red bow on top? It's traditional, no?"
"Aye," Scotty agreed, slowly untying the ribbon and watching Chekov fidget out of the corner of his eye.
Pulling the top off the box, he saw a pile of oddly-shaped, beige biscuits. Peering closer and sniffing, he asked, "Are these shortbread?"
"Yes!" burst out Chekov, who had been barely containing his enthusiasm. "I got the recipe from your mother. You said that your mother's shortbread is your favorite holiday tradition, so I made them just for you!"
"That … that is amazing, love. Truly. Thank you so much." Scotty smiled and leaned over to press a soft kiss against Chekov's mouth.
"Aren't you going to try them?" Chekov asked, his grin taking up his entire face.
"Of course," Scotty declared, trying to hide his trepidation as he picked up a piece of shortbread that in absolutely no way whatsoever resembled his mam's biscuits.
Taking a large bite, he tried not to let the shock display on his face.
"Erm, my, those are … yeah. Thank you!" he managed, his mouth still working desperately to swallow the chalk-like paste that the biscuit had turned into.
Observant as ever, Chekov's face fell. "They are not good."
"I wouldn't say that … exactly," Scotty said.
"No, they are no good. I tried one myself and spit it out, it was so awful. But then I thought, no offense, but almost all Scottish food you make me try is awful, so maybe they were right."
"This is my mam's recipe?" Scotty asked, examining the remaining half of the biscuit carefully.
"Well, yes. I thought it should be no problem. I mean, cooking is just like chemistry. If you follow the directions exactly then you produce the proper reactions and consequently the desired end result."
"But …" Scotty prodded.
"But the recipe was not scientific!" Chekov exclaimed, voice full of distress. "It was imprecise. It said, add salt. How much does that mean? And 4-6 cups flour. Is it four or is it six? Do you see the problem?"
Scotty tried not to laugh. "I think the problem is that the recipe is three hundred years old, and no one in my family has needed it in written form in so long that my mam's forgotten the specifics. She doesn't use measuring units—just adds in how much she needs by feel. It's like the ship here."
Scotty reached back to place his hand against the bulkhead, feeling the living thrum of the Enterprise beneath his palm.
"I know the numbers and I do the calculations. But sometimes I have to forget the numbers and go by feel. She's never let me down yet." Scotty brushed his fingers against the wall one last time and then grabbed Chekov's hand tightly.
Chekov's expression was part pout, part dejection, and part critical analysis of the "failed experiment." It was perfectly, wonderfully, and familiarly Chekov.
Leaning over to kiss him soundly, the box tumbled off Scotty's lap. Several shortbread biscuits spilled out, making a mess that would usually drive Scotty to a maniacal cleaning binge. Tossing the package aside, Scotty didn't even bother to look up, focusing only on the feel of Chekov's warm mouth against his.
Chekov kissed him back, deep and wet and glorious. And as a warm, lanky body covered his own and pressed him into the mattress, the last thing on Scotty's mind were crumbs in the bed sheets.
Author:
katmarajadeWritten for:
oddmonsterPairing: Scotty/Chekov
Rating: R
Word Count: 665
Prompt: crumbs in the bed sheets
Summary: Chekov tries to make homemade shortbread for Scotty on Christmas. It doesn't turn out quite as well as they might have hoped.
Scotty was reading in bed when Chekov bounded into their room with an over-sized grin and a poorly-wrapped package with a red bow on top.
"Merry Christmas!" Chekov exclaimed, excitedly thrusting the box into Scotty's hands. Scotty fumbled, trying to drop his papers and grab onto the gift at the same time.
"What is this?" he asked, knowing full well that the delay would make Chekov squirm in ill-disguised impatience and enjoying every second of the adorably pursed lips and flashing green eyes.
"A Christmas present, obviously. Why else would it have a red bow on top? It's traditional, no?"
"Aye," Scotty agreed, slowly untying the ribbon and watching Chekov fidget out of the corner of his eye.
Pulling the top off the box, he saw a pile of oddly-shaped, beige biscuits. Peering closer and sniffing, he asked, "Are these shortbread?"
"Yes!" burst out Chekov, who had been barely containing his enthusiasm. "I got the recipe from your mother. You said that your mother's shortbread is your favorite holiday tradition, so I made them just for you!"
"That … that is amazing, love. Truly. Thank you so much." Scotty smiled and leaned over to press a soft kiss against Chekov's mouth.
"Aren't you going to try them?" Chekov asked, his grin taking up his entire face.
"Of course," Scotty declared, trying to hide his trepidation as he picked up a piece of shortbread that in absolutely no way whatsoever resembled his mam's biscuits.
Taking a large bite, he tried not to let the shock display on his face.
"Erm, my, those are … yeah. Thank you!" he managed, his mouth still working desperately to swallow the chalk-like paste that the biscuit had turned into.
Observant as ever, Chekov's face fell. "They are not good."
"I wouldn't say that … exactly," Scotty said.
"No, they are no good. I tried one myself and spit it out, it was so awful. But then I thought, no offense, but almost all Scottish food you make me try is awful, so maybe they were right."
"This is my mam's recipe?" Scotty asked, examining the remaining half of the biscuit carefully.
"Well, yes. I thought it should be no problem. I mean, cooking is just like chemistry. If you follow the directions exactly then you produce the proper reactions and consequently the desired end result."
"But …" Scotty prodded.
"But the recipe was not scientific!" Chekov exclaimed, voice full of distress. "It was imprecise. It said, add salt. How much does that mean? And 4-6 cups flour. Is it four or is it six? Do you see the problem?"
Scotty tried not to laugh. "I think the problem is that the recipe is three hundred years old, and no one in my family has needed it in written form in so long that my mam's forgotten the specifics. She doesn't use measuring units—just adds in how much she needs by feel. It's like the ship here."
Scotty reached back to place his hand against the bulkhead, feeling the living thrum of the Enterprise beneath his palm.
"I know the numbers and I do the calculations. But sometimes I have to forget the numbers and go by feel. She's never let me down yet." Scotty brushed his fingers against the wall one last time and then grabbed Chekov's hand tightly.
Chekov's expression was part pout, part dejection, and part critical analysis of the "failed experiment." It was perfectly, wonderfully, and familiarly Chekov.
Leaning over to kiss him soundly, the box tumbled off Scotty's lap. Several shortbread biscuits spilled out, making a mess that would usually drive Scotty to a maniacal cleaning binge. Tossing the package aside, Scotty didn't even bother to look up, focusing only on the feel of Chekov's warm mouth against his.
Chekov kissed him back, deep and wet and glorious. And as a warm, lanky body covered his own and pressed him into the mattress, the last thing on Scotty's mind were crumbs in the bed sheets.
