Baking (Rumbelle fluff attempt)

This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction in forever but I needed to do something after the heartache from this war.  BRING ON THE FLUFF, PLS&TY.

I’m horribly out of practice.  I’m sure it shows. 

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He notices the flour covering the room — a blanket of snow in the middle of spring — shortly before noticing the girl leaning against his now messy counters, crouching over, her hands bunching up in her hair and her back facing him. Vaguely, he smells something burning from the oven and his nose wrinkles. She smells it too: racing across to the oven right as a kitchen bell begins to chirp.

“Oh!” Her frustrated cry makes him smirk despite the mess (it will take forever to clean this). Her face is scrunching together so strongly he’s sure it will stick that way forever. She fumbles with the kitchen bell — all thumbs, his mind fondly decides — and tosses it to the floor once the chirping has ceased. She angrily shoves her hands in a pair of oven mitts and flings open the oven door.

“Something wrong, dearie?” He tries to keep the laughter out of his voice: the glare she sends his way tells him he’s failed. Horribly.

She pulls a tin from the oven, each separated little circle displaying varying degrees of over-baked. Flour puffs up into the sunlight streaming from the window as she slams the tin on the counter.

“Muffins?” He guesses. A blush creeps across her face.

“Cupcakes.” She corrects him, fingers playing with the lace of her apron.  He takes some steps forward, resting on the other side of the kitchen’s island.  She continues to glare at the offending baked goods.

The smell is horrible. He avoids gagging by chucking instead. The sound makes her huff which in turn makes him chuckle more.

“If you keep laughing at me I’ll make you eat them all.”  She warns.

“As long as there is frosting.”  An embarrassed sort of smile plays across her face, her eyes darting towards the fridge. He straightens, arching a brow.

“Oh I see, you’ve already made the frosting.” He grins and lifts her face to his, a slender finger under her jaw. “Counting your chickens before they hatch” He clicks his tongue in mock discipline. 

She scrunches her nose at him in response. The response is so very her that it takes him off guard. His heart thumps a little too stongly in his chest and a sharp exhale is all he can manage. An image of pulling her towards him, kissing her, fills his mind. He lowers his hand instead and steps back.

He looks anywhere but at her. She’s caught his fluster: a smug sound rises from her throat. He swallows, taps his fingers on the counter, and looks back into her eyes. She calls his bluff, staring back from under lashes and a smugly raised brow. He coughs to clear his head.

Game point: Belle.

“Frost them up, then.” He waves his hand lazily, gesturing towards the cupcakes and turns to walk out. He doesn’t hear any movement from behind him so he turns. She’s staring at him with a befuddled look on her face. He motions with his hand again. Move along, dearie.

“You cannot be serious.” 

His kitchen is a wonderland of flour. It’s playing with the dust motes in the sunlight and makes his nose itch. The woman standing in the middle of it gives him a motherly sort of look that makes him smile, a soft and pleasant feeling fluttering in his stomach.

He is still not used to her being here. He’s still unsure how he feels about her taking over his home for a second time in his life: flowers and smells of springtime once again wafting through a house that no longer feels as empty or lonely.

It’s different. It’s pleasant. 

He’s afraid it will all end too soon. 

He catches her eye and she smiles at him, her eyes warm. She’s really here. But he has things to do today, business to attend to, wars and battles to put in to motion. As much as he’d love to stand there and watch her forever, he needs to turn and leave. She knows this, and nods her heads towards the front door. 

“Don’t be late for dinner.”

He wants to say he loves her. He wants to tell her he’s never stopped. But they aren’t at that point yet: he’s still too much of a coward, she’s far too broken.

So instead he nods, turns, and says instead: “You’ve got flour on your nose, dearie.”