Title: Cooking Lessons
Series: No
Author: Alyse (alyse@CI5Ops.co.uk
Archive: CI5 Operational Control (http://CI5Ops.co.uk), Britslash

Category: Curtis/Keel. (New Professionals)

Rating: NC17.

Spoilers/Warnings: No spoilers. No warnings. Just silliness and sex 
(surprise, surprise)

Summary: Curtis gets fed up with being given takeaways and vows to teach 
Keel to cook

Feedback: Yes please, to alyse@CI5Ops.co.uk. Constructive criticism 
welcome, flames will be used to melt chocolate, and we all know what I'll 
do with that :)

Disclaimers: They belong to Brain Clements and David Wickes 
Productions. They don't belong to me - if they did we all know what they'd 
be doing. I don't make any money from this. I have nothing but my own 
warped imagination and therefore I'm not worth suing. :)

Kudos: Many thanks to my excellent beta Lou, for the eagle eyed spotting 
of typos. Thanks to Munchie, Lou, Chya and Sushi for suggestions of 
cooking disasters. And if you spot the South Park reference - that is 
*entirely* Munchie's fault.

Cooking Lessons

By Alyse

"I can't believe it!"

"It's true."

"I can't believe that you can't cook."

"I'm telling you, Curtis, I can't even boil an egg."

"Rubbish. You just haven't applied yourself, that's all."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. If you can read you can cook. Simple."

"I don't think my last girlfriend would agree with you."

"What's she got to do with it?"


"Don't be stupid. And you haven't answered my question."

"Well, she insisted that I cook her a romantic meal on her birthday..."

Sam muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "You've never cooked 
me a meal..."

"Sorry?" asked Chris innocently, although Sam would swear that he'd heard 
the first time.

"Never mind. And?"

"She swore I was trying to poison her."

"She must have been exaggerating... She was exaggerating, wasn't she?"


"Well, what?"

"I wasn't trying to poison her deliberately. It just... went a bit wrong."

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"Hey! I didn't bring the subject up, you did." Chris' expression was 
wounded, and Sam stifled an internal sigh.

"All I wanted to know was why you felt the need to subsist on nothing but 

"Well, now you know."

"And I'm telling you that I refuse to believe that any adult of reasonable 
intelligence and co-ordination can't cook."

"Well, I can't."

"The answer's simple then."

Chris gave his partner a suspicious look. "What?"

"I'll teach you."


Of all of the ideas he'd ever had, Sam Curtis reflected, offering to teach 
his partner and lover to cook had to be among the worst. He must have been 
drunk, that was the only explanation. Drunk or insane. Surveying the 
devastation that had replaced his normally immaculate kitchen, he decided 
that he'd obviously been both.

He'd heard the expression 'looking like a bomb had hit' but this was 
ridiculous. Far from being one bomb, this looked like the middle of a war 
zone. Or maybe a hurricane. Except, wasn't the eye of a hurricane 
supposed to be calm? The current occupant of his kitchen could hardly be 
described as 'calm'.

"Chris?" he began tentatively. He was almost afraid to ask but something 
drove him on. "What are you doing?"

His American partner turned and glared at him. "What does it look like I'm 
doing?" he all but snarled. "Peeling potatoes!"

Sam eyed the implement that Chris was waving in his direction with a 
certain amount of trepidation. "With a nine-inch combat knife?"

"It was handy!" his lover snapped.

Sam Curtis slowly counted to ten, and then pasted a patient smile on his 
face. "You might find, love," he added mildly, "that the potato peeler in 
the kitchen drawer is a little easier to use." He eyed the combat knife 
warily again. "You're less likely to do yourself an injury with it." Or 
me, he added silently.

For a long moment the two men stared at each other before Keel pasted an 
equally fake smile on his face and reached into the kitchen drawer.

"This one?" he asked, producing a small knife with a flourish.

"No, that's a vegetable knife."

"And potatoes aren't vegetables?" Chris' fake smile was slipping 
slightly. He reached down and grabbed another implement.

"This one?"

"Cheese knife," explained Sam, still watching him cautiously.

By now Chris' smile was almost a grimace, as he said through gritted teeth, 
"Perhaps you'd like to get it out for me then, dear."

Sam avoided the obvious double entendre, mostly because he was afraid that 
if he did 'get it out' in his current mood Chris would cut it off. It 
appeared that cooking and Chris Keel most definitely did not mix. He 
sidled closer to the cupboards and swooped down to snatch up the potato 
peeler, handing it to Chris without a word, and gently easing the combat 
knife from Chris' other hand in exchange.

"There you go," he said cheerfully, understandably relieved now that his 
lover wasn't holding a lethal weapon when he was this pissed off with 
him. "If any of these vegetables decide to launch an all out assault on 
you, and you need this back," he added, waving the k-bar in Chris' 
direction, "just yell."

Chris stared at him for a long moment, his expression pissed, and then he 
stuck his tongue out. "Funny, Curtis," he grumbled. "Remind me why I'm 
doing this again?"

"Because you love me?" asked Sam brightly. It fell flat, with Chris merely 
glaring at him again. He tried again. "Because you want to get into my 
knickers and you know that good food and good wine always ensures that you do?"

Chris brightened slightly, before he caught sight of the mess he was making 
in the kitchen sink. "Are you sure you don't want to get take-away?" he 
asked plaintively.

"Quitting already?" asked Sam innocently, knowing that if there was one 
thing that would focus the American's mind it was the suggestion that he 
wouldn't be able to finish what he'd started. Sam's instincts, as always, 
were right on the money.

"Of course not!" exclaimed Chris, a little too quickly. "I just 
thought..." His voice trailed off as he realised that what he'd been 
thinking was perfectly obvious, and then he scowled at his 
partner. "Forget it," he snapped. "And just tell me what the hell you 
want to go with these potatoes."

"The steak will be fine," replied Sam evenly, foregoing any mention of the 
other vegetables languishing in his cupboard. He wasn't sure that Chris 
wouldn't do something drastic with the sweetcorn in his current mood, and 
the thought made his eyes water. "Just stick it in the oven..."

"I know, I know," interrupted his lover irritably. "I have the 
instructions right here." He waved the potato peeler at the cookbook 
spread-open on the kitchen table. "Now git."

Sam got.


It was almost an hour later before his lover reappeared in the living room, 
looking hot and bothered. Sam had resisted the temptation to go check on 
him - several times. He'd heard muffled cursing, of course, and at one 
point Chris had emerged briefly to head towards the bathroom, returning 
with a box of plasters and an evil look in Sam's direction. Sam had sunk 
down into the sofa, raised his book to hide his face and hoped his partner 
didn't make sure that he needed one too. All he could do was thank god 
that he'd had the foresight to replace the k-bar with a potato peeler. He 
hated to think what kind of damage Chris could have done to himself if 
still armed with a nine-inch blade.

This time, however, Chris appeared considerably happier, even if his thumb 
was now adorned with a shiny new 'Wallace and Gromit' plaster, bought on 
Chris' insistence last time they'd been in Boots shopping for 
'essentials'. Sam cautiously poked his head up from behind his book.

"Okay?" he asked a little tentatively.

"Sure," beamed his partner. "Potatoes are on, steak's in and I'm even 
running the tap for some hot water. This is the first and last time I do 
the washing up, so enjoy it while it lasts!"

Sam smiled back, ignoring the fact that at this stage there couldn't really 
be much washing up that needed doing. "That's okay," he offered 
generously. "You cook and I wash up." Forcing himself to his feet, he 
wandered into the kitchen. Never mind the washing up, he could do with a 
nice cup of tea to steady his nerves.

"Chris..." His voice drifted back from the kitchen.


"When you started the water running, did you by any chance leave the potato 
peelings in the bottom of the sink?"

Chris thought hard. "Think so, yeah. Why?"

His partner appeared at the kitchen doorway, a very patient, very fake 
smile plastered across his handsome face. "That's what I thought," he said 
pleasantly through gritted teeth. "You might want to make sure you don't 
do that again." He produced a mop from behind his back. "You might also 
want to think about mopping up the kitchen floor, which now appears to be 
flooded... I wonder why?"


It took Chris half an hour to mop up the mess he'd made to Sam's 
kitchen. Of course, he thought grimly to himself, a normal person would 
have been happy with the state of the kitchen after fifteen minutes, but 
not Sam. Oh, no. Not Mr 'I'm-so-anally-retentive-it-hurts'. Has to be 
clean enough to see his goddamned face in it. He dumped the dirty water 
down the sink again with so much force that it slopped back over the sides, 
soaking the front of his shirt. For a long second he stared down at 
himself, feeling a very strong temptation to take the mop and shove it up 
his partner's...

Actually, there was something else he really wanted to shove up his 
partner, and it was that which had got him into this mess in the first 
place. He was well aware that the only reason Sam was making him do this 
was because he'd made the fatal mistake of mentioning that he'd once cooked 
a meal for a previous lover. There were times when Sam could be completely 
unreasonable, and unfortunately the mere mention that Chris had loved or 
even been with someone else before he came along was apt to trigger that 
reaction. Strangely enough, the mention of Chris' wife didn't have the 
same effect, although that may have been because Chris didn't mention his 
wife very often, but anyone else and boom. Major insecurity time. It 
would be tiresome if it weren't so damn cute. And Chris had to admit that 
it was probably at least partly his own fault. He did like messing with 
his partner's head sometimes. Unfortunately, it had a habit of backfiring 
on him - like now. He could only hope that they'd both survive the experience.

With a heavy sigh, he unfastened his shirt, shoving it haphazardly into the 
washing machine. Since this was all Curtis' fault, his partner could damn 
well wash it.

And speaking of his partner, Sam chose that moment to stalk into the 
room. His look skated over the floor, giving it the once over. It must 
have met his approval because he didn't make any comment. Then his gaze 
fell on his partner's bare torso, and that must have met with his approval 
as well because he got that look, the one that said he was wondering how 
long until he could manoeuvre both of them into the bedroom. Chris perked 
up. Now this was an improvement. He put on his best 'I'm horny' smile, 
and watched his partner return it, stalking towards him with the possessive 
gait that always managed to turn Chris' knees to jelly. On the other hand, 
forget the bedroom - the kitchen table was much, much closer.

Sam had almost reached him when he stopped abruptly, sniffing the 
air. "Can you smell something burning?" he asked. Since Chris smelled 
burning every time he used his own oven, which was cleaned even less 
frequently than the rest of his apartment, he couldn't say that he'd really 
noticed. Besides, he was more intent on nibbling on Sam than on actually 
eating any food now.

Once again, he was disappointed. Just as he was about to pounce on his 
partner, Sam swerved and headed towards the oven, snagging the oven cloth 
on the way. Sam pulled open the oven door, and then was forced back by the 


Oh god, he was really beginning to hate that patient tone. "Yes," he 
ground out.

"What temperature did you put the oven on?"

He only just stopped himself from pointing out that since Sam was right in 
front of the oven, he could damned well see for himself what temperature 
he'd put the oven on at. Well, two could play the 'patient' game.

"The temperature it said in the cookbook," he replied equally 
patiently. "Three-fifty."

"Ah," replied Sam, still not looking at him, instead staring down at 
whatever he'd pulled out of the oven. The situation did not look good.

"Only, your oven doesn't go up to three-fifty," continued Chris. "It only 
goes up to about two-ninety, so I figured I'd just leave it on for 
longer..." His voice trailed off again when it dawned on him that perhaps 
that hadn't been the smartest move he'd ever made. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed," replied Sam grimly. "My oven doesn't go up to three-fifty 
because, like many ovens, mine is in centigrade and not 
Fahrenheit. Therefore, perhaps you should have read the cookbook a little 
more carefully. If you had, you may have noticed that it gave two 

Chris' temper flared. "Hey, I'm trying my best here!"

Sam sighed, turning on his heels to face him. "I know you are, love," he 
soothed. "But perhaps the cow wouldn't appreciate it." With that last 
remark, he held up the baking tray on which the two steaks were burnt to a 

Watching Sam fighting very hard not to laugh enabled Chris to see the funny 
side. "I don't know," he grinned. "Perhaps the cow wanted to be cremated 
rather than buried, you never know. Last request and all."

Sam shook his head, grinning himself now. "I don't know," he said. "I 
worry about you sometimes." With another sigh, he tipped the contents of 
the baking tray into the bin. "Why don't you mash the potatoes? I think 
I've got a tin of tuna somewhere. We can have that with it." He gave 
Chris the once over again. "I'll go get you a clean shirt. I presume you 
threw yours into the washing machine?"

Damn, found out again. Chris could feel himself flush slightly. Sam 
smirked again at his discomfort, and started to head out of the 
kitchen. He paused in the doorway and gave Chris a considering look.

"Silly question, really, but you did remember to put salt in with the 
potatoes, didn't you?"


Sam sighed again. "Never mind," he said. "Just remember to add some when 
you mash 'em."

"How much?" asked Chris, determined not to make another fool of himself.

Sam shrugged. "A teaspoon should do. Give me a yell when you're ready."

Suppressing his disappointment at not having a chance to get Sam naked 
until after they'd eaten, Chris turned his attention back to the matter in 
hand, rifling through Sam's kitchen drawers.

Teaspoon? Teaspoon?


Sam did, indeed, have a tin of tuna and although the plates looked a little 
bare with only the potatoes and fish, Chris still felt a feeling of immense 
satisfaction realising that he'd made it himself. Well, kind of 
anyway. And that feeling lasted right up until Sam took the first bite.

His partner, he had to admit, struggled manfully to swallow the mouthful 
he'd taken. He winced inwardly, just knowing that any second Sam would ask 
a question in that incredibly irritatingly patient voice that was the only 
tone he seemed to be able to adopt at the moment. He wasn't disappointed.


Here it comes.

"How much salt did you put in these potatoes."


"A teaspoon." His voice was very, very defensive. He just couldn't help 
it. A teaspoon, Sam had said and a teaspoon he had used.

"This teaspoon?" Sam reached over to the side of the sink and picked up 
the offending implement.


"A ha." Sam turned the metal utensil over and over in his hand. "This, 
Chris, is a tablespoon." He turned in the other direction and pulled open 
the cutlery drawer. "This," he added, pulling out another spoon, "is a 
teaspoon. Note the relative sizes."

Okay, so he'd used a spoon about twenty times bigger than the one he was 
supposed to, but how the hell was he supposed to know the difference? He 
asked Sam that precise question, ignoring the fact that his tone could only 
be described as whinging.

Sam sighed again. "Never mind, Chris," he replied consolingly. "Why don't 
we just order a take-away? Indian?"

Now that Sam was offering what he thought he'd wanted, Chris' pride chose 
that moment to rear its ugly head. "I said," he snapped, "that I'd cook 
you something, and cook you something I will!" The words 'even if it kills 
the both of us' hung unsaid in the air.

He felt a brief surge of triumph at the wary look that appeared in Sam's 
eyes. That will teach him to make snide remarks, he thought. I'll damn 
well show him what I can do.

"Okay," replied Sam slowly and cautiously. "What did you have in mind?"

He didn't have anything in mind, that was the problem. "Erm... cake?" he 
suggested, unsure where the idea came from, unless he was channelling Marie 
Antoinette. The doubtful look on Sam's face clinched it. "Cake," he 
repeated firmly.

"Okay... Shouldn't be too complicated." Sam neither looked nor sounded 
convinced. "A simple sponge cake should be fine." Nope, still not 
convinced. "Just bang the ingredients in a food processor, stick it in a 
baking tin, I think I've got one somewhere, and shove it in the oven. You 
will remember..."

"That the oven is in centigrade, yes, I'll remember!"

"Okay then." Sam gave him another doubtful look, heading towards the 
cupboards. "Erm, Chris..." he added, holding a bag of flour and looking 
very nervously at him. "Perhaps you'd like to take my shirt off before you 

Black shirt. White flour.

"Oh no," beamed Chris maliciously. "I'll be just fine."


The cake was in the oven and all was well with the world. Not even he 
could screw up instructions as simple as the ones in the 'Idiot's Guide to 
Cooking' Sam had dug up from somewhere.

"Erm... Chris?"

Oh Christ, what now?

"Is there any particular reason why there are the same number of eggs on 
the table as there were when you started?"

Oh shit.

Sam didn't laugh. He didn't even permit his lips to twitch slightly. And 
his expression remained one of completely innocent interest. Bastard! His 
partner couldn't, however, resist making a smart remark.

"It's not quite like the potatoes, Chris. You can't add the eggs 
afterwards." Bastard, bastard, *bastard*! "Boiled eggs?" suggested Sam, 
still innocently.


Sam wasn't entirely sure that leaving Chris alone in the kitchen was a good 
idea after the disasters so far, but his partner had been eyeing the bread 
knife longingly. And Sam hadn't survived his years as an agent in some of 
the most dangerous parts of the world by not knowing when to leave an area 
before it grew too hazardous to his health.

Actually, he'd had to leave before he broke down in hysterical 
laughter. Although the day had started off as immensely irritating, it had 
taken on a totally surreal twist that meant that Sam just couldn't get 
annoyed anymore. In fact, on some strange, twisted and probably at least 
partially insane level he was actually enjoying it. Besides, getting 
annoyed at Chris for these disasters would be as useful as getting annoyed 
at the tide for coming in, or a hurricane for blowing and destroying your 
home. It might make you feel better for all of five minutes, but it was 
ultimately pointless. And there was something endearing about Chris' 
ineptitude. Until he'd seen it with his own eyes, he never would have 
believed that his talented partner, a man capable of turning any situation 
to his advantage, able to hold his own no matter how great the odds, who 
could fly any aircraft you chose to name and handle a vast array of 
weaponry with considerable skill could be thwarted by items as simple as an 
oven and a food processor. It was an eye-opener to be sure. He grinned 
happily to himself, remembering the look on Chris' face when he'd realised 
that he'd forgotten to put the eggs into the cake mixture. That grin 
lasted until a terrible fact impinged itself on his consciousness.

It had grown awfully quiet in the kitchen.

Chewing on his lip nervously, he edged towards the kitchen door and placed 
his ear against it. No banging, swearing or other signs of his 
ill-tempered partner. Surely he'd be all right? He was a highly trained 
CI5 operative - he surely couldn't come a cropper in the kitchen, could he?

This was Chris he was talking about. With a heavy sigh, he pushed open the 
kitchen door; very gingerly it had to be said. His partner was standing in 
the middle of the kitchen, looking unharmed and rather edible, if a little 
flour covered. No sign of any death or mayhem. In fact, Chris looked a 
little startled by his entrance.

"All right?" he asked cautiously.

"Fine," replied the American sunnily. "Just cleaning up while the eggs 
boil." Chris' idea of cleaning up seemed to be to dump everything into the 
sink, but Sam wasn't going to quibble about that. He glanced automatically 
at the stove to check on the aforementioned boiling eggs.

The stove was bare.

He stared at it blankly, his mind racing, until another sound grabbed his 
attention. A low-pitched humming sound. A sound that reminded him of a 
kitchen appliance he didn't use very often but was probably the one thing 
Chris would know how to operate. His eyes were drawn inexorably towards 
the sleek, black box in the corner, a time bomb in the making.

His eyes widened.

With the ease born of long practice, he grabbed his partner and hurled him 
through the kitchen door, flinging himself after him. There was a muffled 
'whump' behind them.

Chris raised his head and peered at him. "Let me guess," he said a little 
breathlessly. "You shouldn't really boil eggs in the microwave?"

There was this small voice in Sam's head that was repeating over and over 
again 'Do not kill him' and he was half inclined to ignore it. However, 
his partner flashed his dimples at him and he was lost, the urge to maim 
his lover fading even if his temper wasn't improving.

"First thing tomorrow," he ground out through gritted teeth. "You're going 
out and bloody well buying me a new one!"


His partner was now seriously pissed, he could tell. Okay, maybe the whole 
egg in the microwave thing hadn't been among his best ideas, but looking at 
the destruction in one corner of the kitchen, he didn't think it was that 
big a deal. Sure, the appliance itself was totalled, but he'd already 
promised his partner a new one - a better one. And there wasn't much 
damage to the fabric of the kitchen itself, no matter how much Sam 
bitched. And to tell the truth, it had been quite impressive. Who could 
have known that a simple egg could pack that much explosive power? In 
fact, he filed the idea away in a corner of his mind - you never knew when 
something like that would come in handy.

Sam was banging cupboard doors, obviously searching for something. He 
finally found what he was looking for, slamming a cardboard box down onto 
the table.

"Cool," said Chris. "Now cereal I can do." Sam gave him a filthy look and 
continued to rummage in his cupboards and drawers. Chris wandered across 
and picked up the packet to read it. "What are rice crispies, and more to 
the point what is a smooth, suave, sophisticated man about town like you 
doing with kiddie cereal?"

Sam snatched the box out of his hand, placing it back on the table with the 
other item he'd retrieved. "Comfort food," he snapped. "And right about 
now, I need it."

"Chocolate?" asked Chris, picking up the bar that Sam had deposited on the 
table. "You had chocolate and you didn't tell me? Is this comfort food too?"

Sam ignored him, pulling out a saucepan and bowl from the depths of yet 
another cupboard and filling the saucepan with water, placing it on the 
stove. He then found another baking tray.

"What are you doing?" asked Chris a little petulantly. He wasn't used to 
his lover ignoring him, not when he was wearing something tight and black 

"You," replied Sam pointedly, "are going to make rice crispie cakes."

Chris just stared at him for a long moment. Surely Sam couldn't seriously 
expect him to have yet another dismal attempt at making something?

Apparently he could.

"You should be able to manage these, Chris," the Englishman elaborated. "I 
used to make them at my nan's when I was three. And even you, given your 
ineptitude in all things culinary, should be able to manage to make 
something a three year old can make."

He turned ice green eyes on his partner. "On the other hand," he 
continued. "I think I'll stick around and make sure you don't decide to... 
oh, I don't know... blow up the rest of my bloody kitchen!"

He folded his arms and leant against the worktop. Chris just returned the 
glare. "Chocolate in the bowl," Sam explained slowly and clearly. "Bowl 
in the saucepan - don't let it touch the bottom. Melt the chocolate then 
add the rice crispies. Mix it up put it on the baking tray and let it 
cool. Simple." He gave Chris an evil smile. "So simple, even you can do it!"

Bastard! Chris was torn between proving that he could do this or just 
emptying the chocolate over Sam's head. Actually...

Smiling sweetly, he started to break the chocolate up and place it 
carefully in the bowl. "Like this?" he asked innocently. Sam's eyes 
narrowed dangerously. Whatever reaction he'd expected from Chris, he 
hadn't expected him to be reasonable about the whole thing. Well, that was 
good - keep him off balance for a while. "And I put the bowl in the water, 
but it's not to touch the bottom?" He balanced the bowl carefully in the 
saucepan, following the instructions carefully, before turning a brilliant 
smile on his lover.

Sam was looking distinctly uncomfortable, whether because he was feeling 
guilty at his loss of temper or because he suspected that Chris was up to 
something, Chris couldn't tell and didn't care. He was playing it up for 
all he was worth. In fact, he was hard pressed not to blink innocently but 
figured that if he did it would definitely rouse his partner's 
suspicions. "So, we just wait until it melts?" he asked brightly. "Oh 
look, it's already started to. Cool!"

Okay, maybe he was overdoing the enthusiasm a bit because Sam's discomfort 
was changing to suspicion, his partner's cool grey-green eyes narrowing 
dangerously once more. Chris returned the look with one of wide-eyed 
innocence. "So where's the spoon?" he asked.

Sam dug in the drawer next to him and wordlessly handed him a wooden 
spoon. Chris took it with another beaming smile and proceeded to apply it 
to the melting chocolate with more vigour than accuracy. Sam watched him 
warily - an attitude that turned out to be justified.

"Oops," said Chris, trying hard not to laugh at the half-furious, 
half-resigned face on his lover's face as Sam stared down at the chocolate 
smudge now adorning his previously pristine white shirt. "Clumsy me."

Sam sighed heavily, his fingers moving to the buttons on his shirt almost 
automatically. He stripped it off and bundled it into the washing machine 
with Chris' shirt from earlier before turning to give Chris another 
exasperated look.

"Aren't you going to come over here and make sure I'm doing this right?" 
asked Chris when his partner made no move in his direction.

"I think I'm safer over here," replied Sam dryly. Chris pouted.

"How do you know I'm doing it right?"

"I'll take that risk. And turning that 'puppy dog' look on me isn't going 
to work either. Must be losing your touch."

Chris scowled at him before turning his attention back to the now melted 
chocolate. He lifted the spoon out of the pan, watching the liquid 
confection drip from it back into the pan. Just about right.

"What the...!" Sam stared down in amazement at the dark stain now on his 
bare chest. "How the hell did you manage to get chocolate all the way over 

Chris smirked. "My aim's good."

Sam stared at him open-mouthed, and then his expression turned 
vengeful. "You..." He started to stalk Chris round the table.

"Your shirt, remember?" Chris pointed out, back-pedalling rapidly.

"It will wash."

"We'll make a mess of the kitchen!"

Sam glanced round the debris. "It's already a mess."

That was the cue Chris had been waiting for. His eyes lit up and his smile 
turned wicked. "In that case..."


His partner didn't stand a chance, not when he was tackled by an ex-Navy 
SEAL with fast reflexes and armed with chocolate and a tickling fetish. He 
put up a good fight, though, wriggling underneath Chris in a very 
interesting fashion. It certainly got the American's attention, but it was 
probably intended to.

Of course, Sam may have made more headway if he'd actually been serious 
about escaping, but Chris somehow got the impression that he wasn't. Maybe 
that was because all that Sam's wriggling managed to achieve was to turn 
himself over underneath him so that they were face to face, their groins 
pressing together in an even more interesting fashion.

Chris leant down and placed his hands on either side of his lover's head, 
using his weight to pin the other man down. Sam stopped wriggling and 
stared up at him, breathing heavily in a way that had little to do with 
exertion. His grey-green eyes were wide with a silvery sheen to them that 
Chris knew was a sign of his lover's mounting arousal. Sam's chest rose 
and fell with each ragged breath that he drew, glistening slightly with 
small droplets of sweat, either from the heat of the kitchen or the 
wrestling they'd just indulged in. The sight triggered a deep, needy ache 
within him, and unable to resist the temptation of his lover any longer he 
lowered his head to lap lightly at the hollow of Sam's throat. The groan 
that reverberated through his partner set off a very interesting reaction 
where their groins were pressed together.

When he pulled back, Sam's eyes were almost glowing, lit by a fire 
within. His partner raised his chin slightly; a subtle invitation and not 
one Keel intended to pass up on. He lowered his head again and sucked 
gently at the sensitive skin of Sam's neck, just below his ear.

Sam was back to wriggling but this time it had nothing to do with escape 
attempts. Long experience of his lover had enabled him to pinpoint Sam's 
erogenous zones with some degree of accuracy, and he moved for them now, 
sliding down the Englishman's body, his mouth moving along Sam's throat.

He traced a path from Sam's adam's apple to his breastbone, allowing his 
tongue to dip into that tempting hollow once again on the way. He moved 
lower, his tongue tracing concentric circles over Sam's skin as he went, 
listening to his lover panting as he did so. His tongue flicked delicately 
over one of Sam's nipples, feeling the small bud harden at his feather 
light touch before moving on to the other. When both nubs had been teased 
to hard and aching points, he moved downwards to his ultimate goal.


He nibbled and sucked at the surface of Sam's body, his tongue laving up 
every trace of the sugary confection, the sweetness contrasting wonderfully 
with the salty muskiness of Sam's skin. When Sam was clean, he raised his 
head to catch Sam watching him, the Englishman's eyebrow raised sardonically.

"Enjoying yourself?" his lover asked, a hint of amusement colouring his voice.

Chris grinned at him, letting the tip of his tongue slide between his lips, 
catching the last, lingering taste of chocolate and watching Sam's pupils 
dilate as the motion had the desired effect on his lover's arousal level.

"Oh yes," he replied wolfishly. "Two of my favourite things - you and 

His lover's mouth quirked. "I should be grateful," he replied, still 
amused, "that I rank up there, even if it's only on a par with chocolate."

Chris lowered his head again, nipping sharply at Sam's nipple and driving a 
harsh gasp out of his lover. He soothed the resultant stinging with his 
tongue, his eyes never leaving Sam's. "You know you do," he chided gently 
before sitting back on his heels. His gaze fell on the bowl, which had 
managed to remain upright throughout their impromptu wrestling match, and 
his grin grew even more wicked.

"Oh no," said Sam, realising his intentions and trying to wriggle free.

"Oh, yes."

Moving to place his knees firmly on his lover's arms, pinning Sam down 
securely, he just managed to reach the bowl, hooking it with his fingertips 
and pulling it close enough to grab. With a triumphant little smile, he 
sat back, curling his fingers into the sticky mess and scooping up a dollop 
that landed, once again, on Sam's chest. Chris' fingers swirled around in 
it for a moment, smoothing the melted confection over the planes of Sam's 
chest, painting his lover. And then the process started over again, Chris' 
agile tongue flickering over his lover's torso.

This time he didn't need to pin Sam down - his partner wasn't 
protesting. Instead, Sam was watching his every move closely, his eyes 
still shining. Each swipe of the American's tongue over his satiny skin 
set off little shivers throughout his body; Chris could feel them in all 
the places that their bodies touched. Each time that Sam's body shook it 
set off a sympathetic shiver through his own body, arousing him as much as 
it aroused his partner. He pulled off his own shirt just so that he could 
feel those shivers against his own bare skin, throwing it carelessly to one 

His fingers skated along Sam's sides, no longer tickling but 
caressing. Every so often he returned to the small bowl, dipping in to 
raise dripping fingers over his lover's frame, each time a little lower; 
first circling Sam's nipples, then tracing the outline of his ribs, then 
circling his bellybutton.

Finally he began to follow the line of dark hair growing in crisp whorls 
below his lover's navel, trailing it lower and lower on Sam's body to where 
it disappeared into his jeans. With an impatient little sound, his agile 
fingers moved to the buttons on Sam's Levis, snapping them open one by one 
with an edgy growl. His fingers dipped in below the waistline, tracing the 
contours of Sam's erection through the silk of his boxers, drawing a 
shivering moan from his lover as Sam raised himself up on his elbows to 
watch him.

It wasn't enough, and he reached down to pull off Sam's shoes and socks 
before moving his hands to the top of Sam's jeans, grasping the fabric of 
both his jeans and boxers firmly and tugging them down over his lover's 
legs, Sam raising his hips off the floor to help. When Sam was naked, 
Chris sat back to admire his form for a moment, the sight enough to send 
his pulse racing again. His partner's skin fairly glowed in the late 
afternoon light, flushed from the attention that Chris had paid to it and 
damp both from sweat and the silvery trails his travels had left. He 
looked edible - which was just as well since that's exactly what Chris was 

Sam responded automatically to his survey, his partner's legs parting 
slightly, his whole attitude changing from one of confrontation to almost 
wanton in the blink of an eye, the sudden chameleon shift catching Chris 
off balance for a moment. It was intentional - it had to be with Sam 
watching him with those silver-green eyes, judging his arousal level and 
adapting to it.

They'd built up an almost spooky rapport early on in their partnership, one 
that enabled them to pick up on each other's non-verbal cues in a way that 
bordered on telepathy. While this rapport didn't always extend into their 
personal lives, there were times, like now, when it enabled them to pick 
just the right thing to say or do to drive each other wild.

Sam was still watching him closely, some amusement showing through mingled 
in with the desire. His legs moved almost imperceptibly further apart, 
another unspoken invitation and Chris had no intention of passing up on 
this one either. With a deep growl in the back of his throat, he pounced, 
ravishing Sam's mouth with no subtlety just raw, naked need. His tongue 
forced its way past Sam's teeth, plundering his lover's mouth, leaving no 
nook or cranny unexplored.

Sam's response was equally enthusiastic, his hands coming up to cup Chris' 
head, his strong fingers digging into Chris' scalp in a way that should 
have been painful, but was instead oil on the fire of the American's 
arousal. Their chests pressed together, bare skin whispering over bare 
skin as they struggled to pull each other closer.

Chris was the first to break free, his breathing harsh as he stared down at 
his lover's flushed face and kiss stung lips. A soft moan escaped him at 
the sight, and Sam's skin flushed further, his partner responding 
involuntarily to the sound even as his eyes widened.

Chris moved back down Sam's body, nipping and sucking at the delicate, pale 
skin below Sam's navel, once again enticed lower by the trail of dark hair 
to his ultimate goal. He sighed softly as he reached it, his breath 
caressing it, sending another shiver through his lover.

He took his time, running his tongue lightly up and down Sam's erection, 
ignoring the panting moans from his lover that urged him to go faster. He 
loved the taste of Sam, the slightly bitter flavour exploding on his tongue 
as he dipped it into the slit in the head of his lover's cock. But there 
was something missing...

"Chris," growled the Englishman warningly as he once again reached for the 
bowl. "What are you doing?"

Actually, he thought it was perfectly obvious what he was planning to do 
with the chocolate, so he didn't deign to answer. Besides, his mouth was full.

His partner's head rolled back on his neck with another resigned sigh. "So 
help me, Chris," Sam gasped, "if you make one joke, just one, about 
chocolate, salty balls I'll swing for you."

Laughing when he had his lover's erection in his mouth got a very 
interesting reaction, he discovered, Sam bucking upwards with a muffled 
oath. He pulled back slightly, tracing the throbbing vein on the underside 
of Sam's cock with one chocolate-coated finger before following the line 
with his tongue.

Strangely enough, Sam stopped arguing at that point. Actually, Sam stopped 
doing anything but moaning incoherently. Not that he had any complaints 
about that - it meant two things. First, he was doing what he loved to do 
the most - drive his lover completely insane, and secondly it meant that 
for once he didn't have to listen to Sam's smart arse remarks. He'd had 
enough of those today, and much as he loved the man - and he did, a lot - 
he had his limits.

He went to town, enjoying himself immensely, painting Sam's cock with the 
melted chocolate and slowly, ever so slowly, licking it off. When he'd had 
enough of chocolate he still had the wonderful, musky taste of Sam to 
savour. His tongue flicked lightly over the sensitive patch of skin behind 
the head, slid along the slit, caressed and swirled and pressed. For 
variety he moved to caress Sam's balls with that same agile muscle before 
he sucked first one and then the other swollen sac into his mouth, tugging 
on them gently. And then he returned to Sam's rampant member, no longer 
teasing but working to drive his lover towards climax, swallowing him whole 
and using his tongue and the light scraping of his teeth as he moved his 
mouth up and down it to drive Sam over the edge.

His lover came with a strangled cry, his bitter seed pulsing down Chris' 
throat as the American milked him through his orgasm. And then Sam 
collapsed in an exhausted and sweaty heap on the kitchen floor.

By now, Chris' own level of arousal was almost at crisis point, and he 
pounced on his lover again, kissing him fiercely and grinding his neglected 
erection into Sam's hip. His lover kissed him back as fervently, helpless 
against the sudden onslaught. It wasn't enough; he wasn't going to get off 
like this. He pulled back, searching Sam's face, a question clear in his 
own expression.

Once again, that almost spooky rapport kicked in, and he saw the answer 
clearly in Sam's eyes. It had him rising to his knees, pulling Sam up with 
him, his eyes darting around the room, looking for a way to do this. Of 
course, it was so blindingly obvious.

Sam barely had time to catch his breath before Chris had him bent over the 
kitchen table, sweeping aside many of the utensils he'd used and abandoned 
during the course of the day so that they landed on the floor with a harsh 
clatter. Sam didn't even sigh, just braced himself firmly against the 
wooden surface and slid his legs apart in mute appeal. Once again, Chris 
looked around frantically, searching for something to use before he 
exploded with need. His eyes lit on the butter, used in the failed cake 
baking and left untended since, and he let out his breath in a ragged sigh, 
able to relax slightly now that satisfaction was within reach.

It didn't take him long to prepare his lover; Sam's body was used to his 
touch now and opened to him easily. He didn't bother to remove his own 
remaining clothing, the sight of Sam naked and displayed like that for him 
enough to drive him onwards. His fingers fumbled at the fastenings of his 
trousers, pulling them open to free his own erection, thankful that since 
he'd known that he'd be spending the day with Sam he'd chosen not to wear 
underwear - it only got in the way after all.

Despite his hunger, he entered his lover slowly, loving that long, slow 
slide into Sam's tight heat and wanting it to last as long as 
possible. Finally he was buried to the hilt in Sam, Sam's flesh gripping 
him tightly. Sam moaned and pressed back into his thrust, the sound 
reverberating through both of their bodies. It was heaven, as always.

Chris let out a moan of his own, lowering his face to press it into Sam's 
bare shoulder, breathing in the scent of Sam before pressing a gentle kiss 
against Sam's skin. And then he straightened, moving his hands to Sam's 
hips and gripping him firmly before surging back into him again, driving 
another soft moan from the Englishman.

He set a pounding rhythm, knowing he couldn't hurt his lover, knowing that 
Sam's body was relaxed after his own orgasm and knowing that he wouldn't 
last long. He was right - the sensation of Sam surrounding him and the 
sight of his partner's body spread out before him, his and only his to 
enjoy, sent him careening over the edge into bliss.

He collapsed to the floor, pulling Sam down with him, and the pair of them 
lay there panting heavily. Finally he managed to crack one eye open and 
glanced at Sam, who was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"So..." he began. "Rice crispie cakes, huh? Have to remember those."

Sam laughed. "Uh huh," he replied. "Although I notice you didn't manage 
to make any."

Chris shrugged. "Got distracted." He turned his dimples on his 
lover. "'Sides, we can do it again sometime."

Another laugh from Sam. "I think that I will abandon the idea of teaching 
you to cook. You are no use whatsoever in the kitchen."

Chris turned a lecherous grin on him. "I don't know," he replied. "I 
think I managed some things quite well."

Sam gave him a wry look. "I somehow think that Delia would *not* approve."

They lapsed into a companionable silence for a while until Sam turned to 
him again and smiled. "Besides, it's not fair. How come you get to have 
all of the chocolate?"

Chris picked up the bowl again and glanced at the contents. "It's gone 
hard," he commented.

Sam chuckled, glancing at Chris' groin where his jeans were still 
open. "Again? So soon?"

Chris threw the bowl at him, but he fended it off with the ease of long 

"You know what happens now?" the American commented thoughtfully after a 
moment's reflection.

"Shower?" suggested Sam, shifting uncomfortably on the cold kitchen floor.

"Nah," said Chris. "I have to teach you to fly." He turned a wicked smile 
on his partner. "Just think of the possibilities the 'mile high club' holds."

Sam just rolled his eyes but wisely, for once, kept silent, leaving Chris 
to his own thoughts, watching his partner as Sam lay there, naked and still 
tempting his taste buds. After due consideration, he decided that this 
'cooking' thing wasn't so bad after all. Chocolate, naked Sam... Yeah, he 
could definitely get used to this.

But on the other hand, the mile high club...

The End

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