Kitchen Nostalgia with Tech
[Part 3 of Holiday Fluff with The Bad Batch]
Dividers by @ve-ti-ver on this post here
Word Count: 1.2k, LOL... Tech is always gonna get me goin. ;)
SFW, just some warm and fuzzy stuff that will be a composite master post of Bad Batch sweetness. GN Reader.
“This is ridiculous,” Tech commented, unable to tear his eyes from the TV despite the array of baking materials laid out across the counter. The loud laugh track played over raucous clapping as Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra introduced the next number with playful banter, crew workers pushing fake storefronts and houses across a large sound stage behind them. “It’s entirely fabricated, without any attempt to conceal the fact…”
“They weren’t trying to make it seem real,” you giggled, wanting to squeeze him as he groaned at the sight of an incredibly gaudy Christmas tree, dripping with tinsel, being rolled out next. “It’s just… the aesthetic. It’s a variety show. Television was still new, so people were thrilled to see anything really.”
“This is reasonable, however in our current day and age–”
“It’s just nostalgic. Warm and fuzzy. I can’t explain it,” you interrupted, pulling his arm to invite him to finish rolling out the cookie dough. “It seemed like a simpler time… Pure and sweet somehow…”
“Mafia-affiliated crooners singing Euro-centric holiday songs does not strike me as either pure nor sweet,” Tech commented,
Ladies and Gentlemen! Frank Sinatra Junior and Dean Martin Junior!
“The same names?” Tech nearly choked. “First their daughters are introduced as singers, now their sons too? I question the authenticity of the organic talent of the offspring versus the undeniable favoritism from production companies due to their parents’ status.”
“Tech,” you breathed, exasperated at his constant commentary, although you couldn’t really blame
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my daughter Deana,” the taller one said. You couldn’t help but start to giggle, hearing Tech’s words in your head before they even left his mouth, and as he spluttered like a fish out of water, the show continued, “And I’d like you to meet my daughter, Tina.”
“The rhyming is just patronizing at this point, and have these performers been evaluated for narcissistic personality disorder? His name is Dean, his son is Dean Junior, and his daughter is Deana?” Tech looked as though he was about to have a conniption, and you couldn’t take anymore. Leaning over him, you grabbed the remote from the counter and switched the screen off, laughing uncontrollably.
“Okay, okay, it’s all ridiculous,” you confessed, a little indignant at his inability to move past all of the shortcomings. “I just like the old stuff sometimes, alright?”
“I apologize if my thoughts are preventing you from enjoying your show,” Tech said, although you could tell he was just saying it because he knew he was supposed to. You stuffed down a little grumble and instead turned your thoughts to the task at hand.
“Let’s just finish the cookies,” you said, pulling out your favorite shapes of cookie cutters while he continued to flatten the dough across the counter. You snagged a small piece from the edge, popping it in your mouth and relishing the sweetness with a single, closed-eyed sigh. His face softened a bit, pushing aside the protests about salmonella risks with a reminder of their statistical occurrence.
The rest of the baking went by with quiet conversation and little brushes against one another, and once the cookies were in the oven, the luscious smell filling the kitchen, it was time for the traditional “waiting drink” – an “adult egg nog”. As you mixed together two mugs and took a long drink from yours, you heard big band music, lifting your head to see Tech turning the television back on, an unmistakable and endearing cringe on his face.
“You don’t have to–” you began, but he waved his hand, turning toward you with a surprising gentleness on his face. He came back over, accepting your mug and lifting his eyebrows after a cursory sip.
“I believe I was overly hasty in my judgment,” he said, shocking you deeply at his uncharacteristic admission. Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra were cracking themselves up now, dancing in over-the-top silliness as they sang a medley of their most popular songs in perfect, playful harmony. You took another sip of your holiday drink, warmed to the core and pleasantly fuzzy.
“It’s alright,” you answered, “It’s not for everyone.”
“But it is for you, and I care about you. Therefore, in a way, it is something I can appreciate as a facet of your personality and interests,” Tech said, taking a step closer. You loved the way he could arrive at wonderfully sweet and romantic conclusions through the process of cold, hard reason. You couldn’t have possibly anticipated his next words, however, as Frank Sinatra began to sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”. Not usually one for physical touch, he lifted a hand to the outside of your arm, stroking it lightly with a look of resolution on his face as though he’d decided to try something. “Would you like to dance?”
“Dance?!” you blurted out, setting your mug down much harder than you intended. Tech looked concerned.
“It seemed fitting with the–” he explained.
“No, no… I’d love to!” you interrupted, heart warming at the flicker of relief on his typically unfazed face. “I just… didn’t think that was something you’d enjoy.”
“I concur,” he answered matter-of-factly, and you laughed again, a tingle washing over you as he slowly nestled one strong, steady arm beneath your own and rested his hand between your shoulder blades, scooping you into a very rigid and structurally perfect ballroom frame. He took your other hand in his, pulling you into the first step with an impressive blend of strength and grace, and began to step slowly in time to the music.
From now on, our troubles will be miles away…
Here we are, as in olden days…
Happy golden days of yore…
Buoyed by the warmth of the egg nog and brandy, intoxicated by Tech’s closeness and quiet intimacy, you closed your eyes in utter bliss, guided by his firm leading as you swayed slowly around the kitchen. You didn’t know what had possessed him to try something so uncharacteristic, but you weren’t about to start asking questions.
Through the years, we all will be together…If the fates allow…Hang a shining star upon the highest bough…
You didn’t think it could get any better, but as the song went on, his arm suddenly lowered, the rigid frame that kept you at bay replaced instead with a more snug embrace as he pulled you in against his chest, still clasping your hand in his own but resting it against his shoulder. You nuzzled in, savoring every touch and movement as he leaned his cheek against the top of your head. Holding him as closely as possible, your arm tucked lovingly around his waist, you inhaled deeply, his scent mingling with the baking cookies, and you thought you might burst with joy.
“Thank you,” you whispered, and he pressed a kiss to your hair, deeply gratified by the overwhelming success of his endeavor. He was trying something new, channeling his focus to the senses. The feeling of your body fitted along his own, the slight chill in your fingertips, your steady breathing... He was surprised at the warmth it conjured.
Perhaps he would investigate further.
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