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It is the late afternoon of a wet, drippy Christmas Eve day. The dogs are asleep in front of a noisy fire in the living room, and the heavy ivory and red candles along the mantelpiece glow gently as their flames burn deep into the candle wells. Their mercury glass candle stands glitter in the orange light that licks up from the fireplace. Sean has turned on the white lights entwined in the long garland of evergreen swagged up the staircase bannisters. On the dining room table is a centerpiece of pine, and of gleaming glass ornaments that Viggo picked out one by one at a little shop downtown, all made from molds generations in use; Poland, Czechoslovakia, Germany. The three red tapers tucked into the greenery have all been lit, as well as the red votives set in pine boughs on the narrow table in the foyer. Vig and Sean have not gathered enough ornaments to manage a Christmas tree this first year, but they figure they're making a start.
In the kitchen ceiling there are overhead, recessed lights, of which Sean is not all that fond. Still, he can isolate one as a single work light over the long, butcher block table that he has dragged into the middle of the dim room. A heavy, handsome piece of furniture, nearly as long as Sean is tall, it is old and mellowed with use. Sean found it at the drive-in swap meet two weeks after he moved into the house. If he throws a cloth over it, it doubles as the kitchen table. He supposes he'll eventually buy a proper kitchen table so that he can keep the butcher block piece here.
Viggo grunts a little as Sean leans into his work. Sean presses at the dough, kneads it satin and elastic, digging the heels of his hands into the soft warmth, the scents of flour and yeast rising, his shoulders rounding at the last. Viggo's cheek rests on his folded arms. He closes his eyes, concentrates on the pressure of Sean's hands, the faint shuffle of the dough, the silky rasp of it over his skin.
Sleeves rolled to his elbows, Sean appears to have been sifted with the flour. There's flour on his face, flour on the table, flour on his shirt, a faint wash of it all down the front of him. Happens every time. He's given up attempting to be tidy when he's baking, bread especially. There's no more use in that than in Viggo trying not to dribble paint or clay or glue or whatever on the floor when he's working. One of the many nice things about being with Viggo is that Vig never whines at Sean about his preference for ratty old shirts. This one's got paint stains on it. Probably it's Viggo's, anyway.
Stray granules of flour rest lightly on the dark hairs at the backs of Viggo's thighs, a swash of it pale on pink across the right curve of his bum. Sean dusts Viggo's shoulders, pushes the dough over the muscle along his spine, into the valley of his vertebrae, and up the other side. The single light over head halos Sean's hair, makes a shadow of his face. Viggo's shoulder muscles beneath Sean's whitened hands twitch, roll into pale outlines. Sean pulls back, folds the dough over on itself, turns it and starts again.
Once no more than a narrow, creaky door half painted shut, the broken-out arch of the butler's pantry now yawns raggedly at the back end of the kitchen. When he first moved in, without even Mycroft and Phee to keep him company, Sean could hardly imagine what he might want with all that extra storage space, wondered not for the last time if he'd made a mistake. Even so, as he stood scowling at the musty, disused space, counting how many of the glass-front panes of the upper cupboards were cracked, speculating on he hardly dared guess how many careless layers of paint had been thrown over the wood, he recognized that underneath it all, the lines had remained true. Craftsmen, men who knew their business, had put this house together with care and pride some seven decades gone, and though the hardware might be missing or broken, though the solid doors of the lower cabinets might hang on ruined hinges, the bones of the abandoned room were strong, and what had once been useful and beautiful could be those things again.
Recently Eric has spent most of his off-hours helping Sean and Viggo break out the old door and the walls on either side, open up the place into an extension of the kitchen. Starting just before Christmas might not have seemed the best timing, but they're re-working the kitchen bit by bit to reduce the trauma, and so far, so good. Eric will help them rebuild the opening into a broad, gentle archway, all the while making sure that details such as electrical conduits and load-bearing walls are not overlooked. Sean offered to pay him for his time, but winking, Eric prefered to take it out in trade. Viggo likes to cook. Sean likes to bake. Eric likes to eat. It's the perfect arrangement for a busy architect.
Sean pats the fragrant dough into a large round. He brushes excess flour from his hands, setting a flurry of motes floating in the broad beam of the work light, and he reaches for a large, buttered bowl. Sean brushes little eddies of flour from his living work surface, settles the bowl into the warm hollow of Viggo's lower back. "Don't shift about," Sean orders. "The dough has to rest for an hour or so."
Viggo yawns and mumbles, "'Kay," refrains from flexing his muscles beneath the rising bread, exploring the weight.
Sean busies himself with cleaning up the mess he's made. The old farmhouse sink, worn and battered, they think they'll be able to salvage. The couple from whom Sean bought the house apologized that they had not yet got around to tearing the old thing out and replacing it with something more modern. Obviously, Sean had arrived just in time.
The old flooring in the pantry needs a brush-up, but otherwise it will do as it is. There is a mysterious stain, just inside, a dark sort of red. The three men have surmised it's likely wine, though the way it appears oddly pink in certain lights makes Sean suspect grenadine. Just the same, he's named it the Anne Boleyn Stain, and sometimes when Vig's acting up he calls Viggo's attention to it, glancing meaningfully between Viggo and the ominous red mark. He always appreciates Viggo's attempt at appearing nervous.
"I'm glad," Viggo says, carefully scratching the end of his nose, "Eric talked us out of bashing out that little window to put in a bigger one. How many loaves does this make again?"
Sean nods, laying out his washed tools on a clean towel. "Aye," he agrees. "I were a mite hasty for demolition, on that one. Two, luv."
They had not realized, until Eric persuaded them to invest a little time in cleaning the small, filth-encrusted window, that it is leaded in pie pieces, its diameter edged with pale blue glass. Now that it's been cleaned up properly, when the sun sets the little window gleams like a round jewel, high in the rear wall of the butler's pantry.
Sean dries and puts away his things, washes up the mixing bowl, the measures, wipes the flour and salt from the dark stone counter. Sean has decided that he hates this damn granite. He wants tile. Black and ivory maybe, with a sort of low-key Deco pattern. They will eventually repaint the cherry kitchen cabinets a soft white, change out the slightly too-Florentine hardware. The brushed stainless steel appliances are new and expensive, and Sean will be getting rid of them.
Eric has recommended a shop that offers modern equipment with vintage character, sturdy workhorses with jolly little details and rounded edges, and that don't look like bloody computers nor require them, in order to function. When Sean was deciding between black, red or blue in the style he likes he asked Viggo his preferences, but Vig only grinned and yelped, "Pink!" and that was that. Dark blue, Sean decided at last, with chrome fittings; the refrigerator, the stove. A big stove, with a big oven beneath.
"Sean," Viggo mumbles, "has it been an hour yet? My neck is creaky."
Sean blinks himself back to the present, checks the clock. He pulls the bowl from the hollow of Viggo's lower back, lets him stretch and crackle his neck. As he settles back down Sean dusts the flats of his hands over Viggo's back, spreading a fresh, fine layer of flour from his shoulders to his lumbar. The overhead light picks out the patterns where his fingers have been, Viggo's skin warm beneath the white swirls. Sean presses his fist into the dough, deflating it in the bowl. He rolls the dough out of the bowl and over Viggo's back, pulls it toward himself, heels it away, Viggo sighing happily. His hips squirm a little. Sean smiles. Viggo's bum is scattered with flour, little drifts of it settled into the dimples at the base of his spine, into that lightly furred valley between his butt-cheeks. The fine white powder dusts the pale hairs on Sean's forearms, settles into the fine creases at his wrists, his knuckles.
Soon enough Sean splits the dough into two loaves, forms them carefully and lays them in their pans, sets them aside to rest again. Viggo wriggles a bit and peers back at Sean. He wonders, sounding faintly disappointed, "Are we finished?"
"Oh no," Sean reassures. He reaches for the butter, makes sure Viggo sees his smirk. "We've nearly an hour before they go into the oven."
Viggo grins, "I don't think there's room for you up here, my friend."
Sean unbuttons the front of his jeans, his intentions quite plain. "Plenty of space," Sean counters. "Roll over, love." Viggo squirms eagerly onto his back, draws his legs up and wide, and Sean looms over him, blocking out the light for a moment as he kneels in silhouette. His clothes dust flour onto the dark hair of Viggo's chest and belly. Viggo sneezes.
"God bless you," Sean says, as he lowers himself between Viggo's thighs.
The denim scratches Viggo's skin, steel buttons digging in. Viggo shifts, lining the two of them up, hard, sliding satin, heat, crisp hair, equally vulnerable. Viggo hooks his toes into Sean's waistbands, first the shorts, then the jeans, Sean laughing at Viggo's determined gymnastics, and shimmies it all down toward Sean's knees. His hands begin to undo shirt buttons. "Are you sure this table can hold us both?" One foot trails up the back of Sean's right thigh.
"Bloody thing could hold a baby elephant," Sean claims proudly, licking a streak of flour from Viggo's cheek.
Buttery fingers find their way between them, Sean's torso raised on one elbow, his hand turned and curved over the back of Viggo's shoulder, steadying them both. Sean kisses him slow and thorough, takes the two of them together in his slick, salted fist. Viggo's eyes close against the light behind Sean's head, his moan of pleasure rising into the warmth of Sean's mouth. His hips tilt into Sean's grip, their twin heat sliding hard one against the other. His hand joins Sean's, sneaks lower, searching for how perfectly Sean fits into the curl of his fingers and palm. Sean licks Viggo's lips, murmurs encouragement, his slick thumb stroking Viggo just there, to make him gasp for more, open himself wider. Viggo feels the bumps of his lower spine, the flat bones of his shoulders pressing into the warm wood beneath him, nicked and rubbed to this rough finish through decades of hands working; a thing of practice and beauty, and made to last.
Summary: Sean and Vig contemplate remodeling the kitchen. (Part of the Novice Chronicles, after Glamour)
Rated: R
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1998 Read: 1437
Published: 30 Jul 2009 Updated: 30 Jul 2009