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choicesfannatalie22 · 1 month ago

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Pumpkin Soup

Word count: 2'200+

Tagging: @bloodboundismylife @choicesfannatalie22 @velvet1753

Pairing: Adrian x MC (Amelia, Amy for short)

Warning: suggestive comment - nothing major

Summer brought many surprises, the unpredictability of the English weather being one of them. Having spent most of the Autumnal months in the familiarity of New York, Adrian managed to obtain a few weeks at the newly-founded London offices of Raines Corp, in the hope that he may oversee the transfer and adaptation of communications between the London and the New York branch. As an additional treat, Amy was able to accompany him, the latter forking out on a holiday let; a beautiful, rustic cottage located in the South-West of England, surrounded by miles upon miles of agriculture and woodland.

Having spent a couple of days in the city, Adrian pulls up onto the cobblestone driveway, dimming the headlights as he parks. As he removes the keys from the ignition, he takes a moment to sit back and admire the view before him; the property is cosy, its walls and foundations made from sandstone, narrow steps leading onto a sturdy patio. He looks up at the roof, the tiling somewhat immaculate for a building of its age. He smiles wistfully, collecting his laptop case from behind the seat before stepping out, quickly noticing the humidity in the air. A rumble of thunder catches him by surprise as he makes his way up the steps, sliding his case into one hand as he unlocks the front door with the other.

“Amelia?” He calls out into the hallway, slowly walking over to the staircase; he stops at the bottom, his elbow leant up against the banister, “sweetheart?”

“I’m in here!”

A soft voice carries through from the other end of the corridor, accompanied by the sound of a pot clanging against the sideboard. He quirks a brow, his intrigue leading him in that same direction.

Adrian enters the kitchen, where he is immediately met by the earthiness of basil, followed closely by a waft of thyme as Amy opens the oven door; she dons a pair of oven mitts, their ends tainted by hues of orange and brown, evidence of their previous endeavours. He watches from the doorway as she removes a ceramic tray from the heat, fumbling around blindly in her attempt to switch it off, the crockery seeming to increase in weight the longer it remains in her grasp. Sensing an impending disaster, Adrian moves to intercept, reaching for the dial; he turns it off, allowing Amy a chance to adjust her hand placement. She places it down on the chopping board, making sure that it is situated away from the edge before removing her gloves, using them to waft the steam in the direction of the window.

“If you do that any longer, we’ll have the entire neighbourhood on our doorstep asking for a piece.”

She wipes her floury hands down her front, “they’ll have to fight me for it.”

“The kitchen smells like a bakery,” he comments, glancing around the room; most of the appliances remain undisturbed by her efforts, but as Adrian pans around to the sink, the evidence is clear to see, doughy residue – now hardened – covering at least three kitchen cupboard handles, the occasional smear appearing in the creases of the sideboards and on the tap. Amy follows his gaze, a rosy flush seeping into her cheeks.

“I got a bit carried away, didn’t I?” She looks down at the floor, failing to conceal her grimace as she steps in a pile of gloop, the action not going unnoticed, “I didn’t realise it was so messy in here.”

“How did you manage to get it on the floor?”

“I don’t know,” she frowns, “it was all in the oven, the last time I checked.”

Adrian walks over to the stove, carefully removing the lid from a saucepan; he leans in, unable to resist sniffing its contents as he gives the amber liquid a stir.

“Is this butternut?”

“And pumpkin,” she moves to stand beside him, reaching for a discarded egg cup; taking her thumb and index finger, she retrieves a pinch of herbs, sprinkling the dried leaves into the soup, “with rosemary and coriander.”

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”

“I wanted to at least try doing something productive today,” she smooths down her skirt, her fingertips fiddling with the hem, “is it too much? I-I’d understand if you wanted to get takeout.”

“Why would I do that?” He questions, leaning back against the countertop, his hands scrambling for purchase, “you’ve worked really hard on this.”

“It’s…actually my third attempt,” she trails off, glancing at the bin, “it looks like a vegetable massacre in there.”

“What happened the first two times?”

“I used coconut milk instead of cream,” she bites her lip, “and the second time, all the vegetables went down to the bottom and they burnt.”

She tilts her head in the direction of the sink, where a large pan lies discarded, blackened lumps of what appears to be the charcoaled remains of vegetable decorating the steel. Adrian cups his mouth, as if trying to refrain from laughter, but his attempt falls flat as a bemused snort escapes him, the sound failing to avoid Amy’s ears.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed at-” he quickly notices Amy’s dejected expression as she turns away from him, playing around with the tap, “hey…no, I…I didn’t mean anything by it.” He moves to stand behind her, smoothing his fingers down her forearms, only coming to a stop when his palms caress her own, “can I show you?”

“Sh-show me what?”

He retrieves the begotten pan, angling it just enough so that it captures the light; using his index finger, he etches an image into the burnt embers.

“It’s a face…see?” He points to each section in turn, “there’s the eyes…that’s his nose and that…is his mouth.”

Amy smiles sadly, gently removing the pan from his hands. She squirts some washing up liquid onto the charred remains, running it under the hot tap for a few seconds.

“I really wasn’t laughing at you, sweetheart. I’m sorry if that’s how you interpreted it.”

“It’s okay,” she sighs despondently, reaching for the scrubbing brush, “I know that deep down, I just…” she shakes her head, “I wanted to impress you.”

“You don’t need to try and impress me,” he speaks softly, reaching for the tie of her apron; he removes the article, only pausing to lift the ribbon from around her neck, his knuckles brushing against the nape of her neck, “I love you as you are.”

“I know you do, but I just wanted to try and achieve something without making a mistake first. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely,” he nods, placing a tender kiss to the top of her head, “but we’re human. It’s only natural that we make a mistake or two. If we got things perfect all the time, would we ever learn anything?”

She shakes her head, “I guess not.”

He quickly pecks her temple, removing himself from her warmth before trudging over to the cabinet; he reaches in, collecting two soup bowls, his brows furrowed in thought.

“What are you thinking about?” Amy re-gloves her hands, mouthing something quietly to herself before turning the bread upside down onto the chopping board, “you look like you’re somewhere else.”

“Do you think we might benefit from using a pasta dish instead?” He holds one of the soup bowls above his head, “we would have plenty of room for the bread then.”

“It’s up to you,” she looks over at him, her smile brightening as she takes in his appearance; he is crouched down on the floor, his forehead wrinkled in concentration, as if his life depended on the decision that he is about to make, “whatever’s easier, Adrian.”

“I can’t decide,” he pouts, “small bowls would require less washing up.”

“But would allow for more crumbs,” she walks over to him, draping the tea towel over his head, “use the pasta dishes.”

He shakes the material off his head, the ridiculousness of this action eliciting a soft chuckle from Amy; she removes the saucepan from the heat, stirring its contents as Adrian walks back over to her. He places the dishes beside her, moving them closer to the pan as Amy begins to plate the food.

“Would you like some help?”

“You can stand there and look pretty.”

He wraps his arms around her midsection, rocking her gently from side to side as he presses kisses to her neck and shoulder, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I do that every day,” he sighs in contempt, his gaze drifting from Amy’s face to their surroundings, as if memorising ever detail, “I really like it here.”

“So do I,” she opens a drawer, removing the bread knife from its sheath; she cautiously pierces the loaf, slowly withdrawing the blade as it slices cleanly through, “it’s a lovely place.”

“Would you live here? If our vocations were not an issue.”

The knife clatters against the wood; they both look at the window, their eyes meeting one another’s reflection.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” he kisses the space behind her ear, “we both love it here, so why not?”

“But your company…”

“I’ve dedicated decades of my life to that place,” he buries his face in her sweater, closing his eyes as notes of jasmine and cherry blossom reach his nose, “it was my passion project; something that I cherished. Why shouldn’t I step back to pursue another?”

“Another passion project?”

“Mmmmm…” he hums in agreement, “do you agree?”

“What do you want to do?”

“You, preferably,” his eyes glaze over, tendrils of crimson swiftly replacing their usual brown hue; he tilts her face upwards, his knuckle grazing her skin as his hand moves downward, coming to a stop at the hollow of her throat, his voice devoid of volume as he leans in to whisper in her ear.

“You’re my new passion project, Amelia,” he presses his lips to the curve of her jaw, smiling against her skin, “I want to dedicate my time to our future. Marriage…children…we can have whatever we want.”

“Ch-children?”

He nods, “if that is what you want.”

“Is it something that you want?”

“I’ve thought about it,” he replies in turn, “I want to give you the world, if you’ll allow me. I’ll do anything and everything in my power to make that happen.”

He kisses her cheek, “we don’t need to discuss it now. I just wanted you to know that I have thought about what the future holds for us.”

“I appreciate that.”

She pushes herself up onto her toes, meeting his lips with her own before settling back on the balls of her feet; she plates the bread, holding out the dish for Adrian to take. He takes it with a grateful smile, taking a moment to gather cutlery.

“This looks and smells delicious, Ames.”

“I should hope it is,” she picks up a slice of bread, taking a small bite of the crust, “it took me three hours to get the recipe right.”

“Well, you’ve done amazingly as usual,” he beams brightly, guiding her by the small of her back to the dining table. They both take a seat on either side, too engrossed with the food to speak. They share a comfortable silence as they eat their meal, neither one saying so much as a word. It is only when Adrian begins to stack their dishes that he breaks the quiet, unable to hide his bemusement.

“What?”

He shakes his head, “nothing. It’s just nice seeing you so relaxed.”

“I am,” her smile softens, “I’m comfortable and full. There’s no better feeling.”

“Shame about the washing up, though.”

“What washing up?”

Adrian feigns scratching his temple, his eyes darting in the direction of the sink; she follows his gaze…

…to the pile of dirty pots and pans, piled clumsily in the sink.

She groans, her body slumping back in her chair; Adrian walks up behind her, chuckling softly as he places his hands on her shoulders, the pad of his thumbs massaging soothing circles into her skin. He bends over, kissing the top of her head.

“I’ve got this one.”

“A-are you sure?”

“You cooked, so it’s only fair that I wash up, is it not?”

Amy smiles tiredly, nodding.

“Go and get into your pyjamas,” he carries the crockery over to the sink, leaning against the counter, “there’ll be a nice and creamy hot cocoa waiting for you when you get back.”

Amy nods, the pair sharing one last look before Amy disappears out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Adrian waits until he hears her footsteps dissipate before turning back around, a loud sigh escaping him as he examines the messy kitchen around him.

“Couldn’t make it easy, could you babe?” He mutters under his breath, his expression softening as he starts to move the pots out of the basin and onto the side, only stopping when he feels something beginning to slip from his pocket. He manages to catch the object in question before it hits the ground, taking a moment to study the box as he undoes the clasp…

…revealing an engagement ring, adored with a handful of little diamonds, an oval-shaped ruby sitting comfortably in the middle.

“One more day,” he exhales slowly, re-situating the box in his breast pocket, “one more day.”

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