Christmasy domestic cookie goodness snippet. Also, John and Rodney. For reference, backstory to Strangerverse , but mostly, this is cookies. God, I want some cookies. John learned early on to pick his domestic battles with Rodney. When they'd bought the house, John had gotten the kitchen and bedroom, because Rodney and kitchen appliances had a weird relationship that included random malfunctions and once, a food processor battle to the death that ended with their apartment smelling of paprika and cilantro for two months. The bedroom was more self-defense, because while watching Rodney fight it out with a blender was always fun, Rodney could and did sleep anywhere and on everything that didn't move, training from too many hours spent in a lab (and John already knows that someday in the far future, he will hear in great and detailed length about the state of Rodney's back). John had a certain preference for sheets that weren't made of flannel and furniture that matched. But coming out into the living room to see Rodney staring thoughtfully at the eleven foot Douglas fir he'd had delivered, lights strung between the branches, boxes of new decorations surrounding him in readiness for the season of joy and rapture--John has a suspicion that this bout of Christmas enthusiasm will not go well at all. So John's staying in the kitchen and amusing himself with cookies and maybe rubbing Rodney's face in the fact that the last time he made dinner, the oven blew up. There's something weirdly soothing about cooking, though John's tried not to figure out what it is. It could be the chemistry of it, the simplicity of mathematical combinations of matter in a particular order to produce edible results. Some of it is, he knows, the fact that he got heartily sick of take-out and Ramen early on, when he and Rodney's limited budget had gone to external hard drives and internet access. Most of it, though, he has to admit, is the fact that it's soothing, almost mindless except it's everything but. There's also the fact that Rodney reacts to John cooking like someone's been mainlining him oysters and porn for six hours straight. Taking the first batch of gingerbread out of the oven, John begins a silent countdown as he picks up the second tray and slides it in, breathing in ginger and vanilla scented air, remembering Christmases of his childhood with an ache that's grown almost sweet with time. Right at twenty, Rodney appears in front of the kitchen island, eyes fixed on the cookies with the kind of lust that means John will get very, very lucky tonight. Pulling the spatula from John's hand, Rodney gets the first cookie off the sheet, still hot, and shoves half of it into his mouth with a look of utter ecstasy.