You’ve held Sundays in a special place close to your heart ever since you were a child. It would be hilariously inaccurate to describe either side of your family as particularly Christian, or even as especially religious. There were too many wizards and warlocks and Dark Mages or whatever they felt like calling themselves this week running around for that. It would probably be more accurate calling them perpendicularly agnostic as the mood demanded.
Or maltheistic, if your late grandfather was in one of his moods and felt like insulting Zeus's prick.
One had a very hard time denying any form of religion when they could call up a Demon. It was that same metric that made it hard to worship any God, and harder yet to isolate your disrespect for them from your respect for a select few of their followers.
Yet in spite of - or perhaps because of - that, your mother had always treated Sunday the same way a particularly Mormon family might. Sunday was a rest day, and if she had to wrestle Grandma into the living room, banish your Father's latest experiment, and get you and your sisters out of your rooms and around a board game to do nothing but relax, then she would almost definitely accidentally cause another housing crisis to do so. Or kill and replace your boss with a homunculus when they wouldn't stop asking you to work Sundays.
Hindsight tells you it isn't actually that surprising that treating Sundays as a do-nothing day stuck with you as an adult. Your therapist had made a convincing argument that it was actually a bad thing you were so blasé about such obvious trauma.
There was little you could do about it so late into your life, so you had just shrugged and gone about your business - literally, as the case might be. Sundays were a rest day and you understood that even if your employees weren't particularly into any of the Abrahamic religions, and even though you did your best to give them long breaks, a day where there was nothing and nobody for you to worry about was good for everyone's mental health.
That's why you typically didn't wake up until long after noon on Sunday. There was no small part of you that felt like simply lying in bed even when you did wake up. Yet eventually hunger or disgust at the feeling of resting in your own filth would be enough to drive you to shower and eat, and then every other week you'd instead realize you'd spent so little time in your own house you hadn't realized that you needed grocery shopping.
You didn't have a terribly active social life. Outside of your customers and employees, the supermarket just down the street was the most interaction with other people you had in a week.
That was how things used to be.
Giving up your bed so Candy had privacy and a space to call her own in your home hadn't been a hard change for you, not once you moved your hamper and a decent supply of clothes into the living room. What had been hard was persisting in sleeping in like you usually did when your traitorous nose and grumbling stomach collaborate to wake you up hours earlier than you'd like the moment Candy finishes cooking you breakfast.
Try as hard as you like, you can't get back to sleep. Not with the smell of freshly-brewed coffee mixing ever-so nicely with the smell of something cooking.
"Barry? I finished breakfast!" Candy's gentle but uncertain call is the final nail in your wake up call. Bleary-eyed, disheveled, and more than a little happy to hear her putting emotion into her voice, you're already halfway to the kitchen by the time you realize you're awake.
Candy almost certainly has a habit of trying to look like she's only just finished cooking by the time you enter the kitchen, pausing as she lays out silverware to look your way as you stumble into the kitchen. She's made pancakes again, and they look as fluffy as Candy herself.
You slide into your chair, humming appreciatively as Candy slides you a cup of coffee. Taking a long, deep swig, you're vaguely aware of Candy pulling out the seat next to you and leaning into your shoulder as you dig into what she made.
Your eyes widen as you take a bite. It's incredible, delicious, a sublime breakfast you don't have the power to stop yourself from scarfing down.
"I tried mixing blueberries into the batter with the chocolate chips this time. How do they taste?" Candy tilts her head, her cheek brushing against your own as she prepares to literally hang onto your every word. When had she gotten so doubtful? Her voice is as unemotional as ever, yet you knew her well enough now to read into the faint anticipation that was there.
You slow down in your meal, swallowing one last chunk of pancakes you just barely chewed for long enough to enjoy before clearing your mouth of gunk with another swig of coffee.
"I could tell. It's magnificent!" You praise her. Fully awake, you turn your attention to poking at the insides of the pancakes, gently tearing apart the blue and black spots in the pancakes. They looked like they were swirled together. "How did you mix the blueberries and the chips?!?" you perk up.
"I poked the chips into the blueberries so that the fat end was poking out. I'm glad to hear it worked." Candy smiled and leaned back in her chair. "I can make it better." She decides.
Her eyes don't move to the empty plate she'd set out besides your own, but yours do. You grunt, not sure how to broach the topic of how unpalatable she found everything she made herself, no matter how good it was. She'd undoubtedly tried it herself before pretending to still be setting things up as you came in.
You return to your own breakfast, eagerly tearing it apart while Candy watches. She hums a quiet song under her breath, something soft and easily forgotten, and you find yourself humming along. "Is there anything you want me to pick up while I'm at the grocery store?" you broach when your plate is empty.
"Let's see..." Candy rubs her lip like she's deep in thought. "What dish do you particularly recommend I try?" She suggests as if she hadn't already pulled this trick on you multiple times.
In her defense, you kept letting it work. So what was a meal Candy would like to try to make herself, and that you'd love to see her try?
"Oh! I actually know - it's a bit eccentric, and I'll need to stop by a specialty store that sells Goat meat, but..." You begin.
Your morning is calm and relaxed once you've finished cleaning up after breakfast and regaling Candy with one the history of some of your favorite African dishes. It was really just useless trivia save for the bits you knew she cared about - the ways that said dishes were prepared and how you yourself liked to do so.
Obliging Candy had yet to hurt you, after all. So, hands wet and soapy, you thank her for the breakfast and get on with the rest of your lazy Sunday. After you shower you come back to find her sitting on the couch reading a cookbook. You sit on the same couch across from her, pulling your laptop out from under your coffee table to get to work.
At some point Candy goes from sitting upright to curling across the couch, her feet dangling off of the arm opposite you while lightly pressing against your side for the second time that day. You don't touch, but it's a near thing. So near that you can feel the warmth radiating off of her like she was a heater, and smell the lingering scent of a well-used kitchen drifting off of her.
It was calming and relaxing. It made you hungry, yes, but it also stole from you any protest you had about the whole thing as Candy watched you order baking supplies and go through the spreadsheet dictating your earnings and your expenses.
It made filing taxes much easier in much the same way as Candy's closeness made it hard to resist the desire to curl up next to her instead of putting shoes on and going grocery shopping. Candy had actually fallen asleep with the cookbook in her lap by the time you manage it, though, so you gladly sit her down against a pillow and lightly fix her hair before you go shopping.
You don't leave for long. Buying more or less the same things every week and only changing up what meats or what type of bread you buy based on what's on sale means your route in the normal grocery store is more muscle memory than conscious thought.
People were always surprised to learn you usually bought your bread instead of making it yourself, even the sort of Chefs who cooked lazy things if they didn't constantly order out because cooking things at home like they did at work could be exhausting. You didn't mention what you did while Grocers made small talk with you anymore.
Driving to the African grocery is a much longer but much more invigorating experience. You greet the owner by name and get into a long, robust conversation in his native language while he helpfully butchers a very nice cut of Goat for you, guiding you to Plantains and other foods that were either too expensive or unavailable at a normal grocery.
Your computer is on when you return home, and the smell of brownies fills the house.
"Did you make lunch?" You blink as you hobble into the kitchen, burdened by a dozen different bags.
"Making." Candy corrects. She's quick to make her way to you and take half of your bags, making your way into the kitchen and quickly unpacking everything. You made sure to hold onto all of the bags you'd need for tonight's dinner, though, setting them aside for later.
Candy eyes them up herself while she brings a tray of brownies out of the oven. They're warm, a little gooey, and bring themselves just before the line of being called fudgey - in other words, absolutely perfect. They're also not an actual lunch.
Candy preempts this complaint by passing you a turkey sandwich, gently eating one herself. It's plain but alright.
"Candy, I think you are inordinately talented at baking, but not at ordinary cooking." You decide.
"I worked with what we had. Besides that, it's hard to make a basic sandwich noteworthy." Candy shrugs. "Though I hope you know I'll be taking that as a challenge? I won't allow myself to cook something subpar for you."
"Just so long as you know I'm going to be the one making dinner for you tonight." You agree.
"If you say so. On another matter, though... You understand you can take your room back, no?" Candy quickly brushes aside a mixture of annoyance and eagerness, returning to a topic that leaves you speechless.
"I don't want to force you to sleep on the couch - " You start. It's bad enough you're letting her cook for you so much, but making her sleep in your living room?
"The couch is fine. If I had complaints about it, you would hear them. Sleep in your bed. It's your room, and you need more of a good night's sleep than I ever will. Understood?" She pokes you in your chin.
"Yes ma'am." You nod. She withdraws her finger, nodding.
"Good. Trust me, Barry, you won't hear a word of complaint from me about where I'm sleeping." She chuckles. You chuckle with her, not sure what the joke is. "Now eat another brownie."
Time passes by quickly while you're doing nothing and at a snail's pace while you're trying to do something. It barely feels like you've done anything before it's time for you to cook dinner and shoo a begrudging Candy out of the kitchen and towards your work desk, where she can spend her time doing... whatever it is she's always doing.
You're mostly confident she can't make Twitter any worse than it already is, and so see no reason to micromanage what she does to find enjoyment. Nearly an hour later, after you've chopped up, stewed, and glazed a goat - taking great care to melt the fat instead of cutting it away - Candace drifts into the kitchen.
"Here I was hoping to be the one to call you in for once." You chuckle, making sure to pull a chair out for her. Candy moves so quickly you literally don't see her sit.
"Beggars can't be choosers." She shakes her head. You roll your eyes at what is maybe a joke, taking care to pour both two glasses of milk and two bowls full of stew.
The wonderful thing about cooking for and feeding Candy is that she shows no hesitation to eat anything you put in front of her. The oddest of foods wasn't terribly odd to a Demon, after all, and so where a normal person might examine or show hesitation to each a bowl full of foods they'd never had before, Candy simply takes a spoon and brings it to her lips.
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You eat at a more mild pace as Candy's eyes widen. You get to watch her tongue poke against her cheeks as she swirls about her food, almost reluctant to swallow, before she finally does.
"This. This is what I aspire to." She declares. She takes another, larger spoonful of soup, savoring each bite so fully you feel a little jealous.
"I think it's good, but I don't think it's incredible. I'm a bit out of practice too - I shouldn't have used the prime cuts." You critique yourself. It wasn't bad, and you still loved the taste, and you'd definitely tried your best to give Candy a good impression - but she was laying her praise on a little thick. "Honestly, most of what you bake is far better."
"Blasphemy. Heresy." Candy slams a fist into the table. It bucks and shakes. A righteous anger burns in her eyes. There's now a giant dent in your table.
"These are what I commit, yes." You agree casually. "I don't suppose you've been persuaded to let me cook for us more from now on, yes?"
"Occasionally. Kindness must be repaid in turn, you understand?" She insists. You nod, not understanding at all yet absolutely sure you do. Candy's fierce look is only lightly ruined and transformed into a pout by the way she continues to suck down and savor your soup.
"You're absolutely sure you're fine sleeping on the couch?" You insist. Candy stares up at you with a bemused look, much further into the cookbook she'd been reading earlier, wearing some of your pajamas, swaddled in a blanket, and surrounded by enough pillows to make fort Knox.
"I'm absolutely confident I will be fine and that the couch will collapse under the weight of all the things you're insisting I have." Candy chuckled.
"Okay. But is the blanket warm? Is the cover comfy? Should I grab an air conditioner?" You run through the list. You were close to kicking her off the couch and insisting she sleep in your room.
"Barry." Candy raised her voice ever so slightly. You shut up and listened. "I will be fine. Go to bed."
"Okay. Okay, sorry. Going to bed." You rubbed your head, trying to soothe a throbbing you were trying hard to ignore. Maybe Candy had a point. "If you need anything-"
"You'll know." She throws a pillow your way. You blink and register this fact only after it hits you in the face. Message received, you make sure to toss it back her way before you gently leave to go about your normal nightly upkeep.
Sleeping in your bed feels odd after a few weeks of sleeping on your couch. It had been small, yes, but comfy - you had never especially cared about where you slept. When you vacationed it had always been you on an inflatable mattress or the sofa. Yet you had never slept in what felt like someone else's bed.
That's what your bed felt like, now. Like it was Candy's. It felt empty where new impressions had been made by her, a phantom sensation made all the worse by how they smelled like her. It was the smell of phantasmal, fading warmth, mixed with the smell of the kitchen and the bakery - of baked cookies and a hearty breakfast.
It was silly. It barely smelled like her, after all, and you were merely sensitive to the scent for how long you had been gone from the room. Your tired mind was slowing down as you drifted away, conflating how close Candy had been to you now to how close her absence now felt.
At some point in your dreams, that absence fades, and your dreams fill with warmth and the smell of baked goods.
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The little bakery located at 123 Manning street hadn't been there long. Initially, most had dismissed it as just another in the long line of failed shops that had popped up in the little shopping center located in the middle of their bustling neighborhood, doomed to be forgotten in-between the Pizzeria that doubled as an Italian restaurant and the barber shop that every other person's grandma went to.
You would very luckily consider yourself not that grandma. It was such a tacky place - Margret swore by it, but then again Margret had sworn by Nixon and Reagan, so you had firmly been ignoring her opinion for decades now. How it hadn't gone out of business while the little bookstore that had been there before the bakery did, however, baffled you.
Not that it mattered much. What was gone was gone, no matter how many tears you scattered to the wastes, and the bakery in question was so warm that the moment you popped its doors open you were hit with a wall of warmth that drove the numbing cold from your bones.
The brightly-lit store felt as though it were welcoming you no matter how long it had been since you entered it. Everything, from its scent to the light creaking of the floorboards beneath your feet as you made your way to the counter, felt more like the candy stores of your youth than anything else.
"Good afternoon, dearie!" You fidget with your mask, making your way over to the counter. You were feeling nice and toasty, now, just warm enough that it didn't bother you despite the heavy coat you had on.
"Oh, Miss Henderson! I didn't miss an order from you, did I?" The main attraction said. Barry had been sitting behind the counter looking down at something hidden by the register when you came in, but the moment he noticed it was you, he gave you a smile more sincere than some of your grandchildren’s and came around to give you a hug.
"A little old lady can't stop by to say hello and buy a baker's dozen of whatever she’s craving from her favorite bakery?" You giggle, giving him a peck on his scraggly almost-beard. It was looking better-kept than usual these days.
"I suppose so." He laughs, breaking away from you.
"Where did that new assistant of yours go? Candace was so sweet." You look around the shop. You had been so disheartened, having nowhere to satisfy your sweet tooth the first few months of this pandemic.
"Candy? I think she's still finishing up a fresh batch of cupcakes." He blinked, glancing towards the heavy metal door that marked the entrance to the kitchens. If he thinks the adorable nickname passed you by he'd be dead wrong.
"Oh? You trust her in your kitchens? Didn't you fire my grandson for trying to touch your oven?" You twist a different point home instead. It was sounding more than a little like the gossip making its way through town had more than a little truth to it.
"Because he was going to burn his bare hand! I'd given him the rundown of where the gloves were." Barry protests. Then, he frowns. "Why wouldn't I trust her, though? She wanted to concentrate and finish decorating them on her own. I'm sure they'll turn out great."
It was like looking at a great, big puppy, confused about where the treat you'd never been holding had gone after you threw it.
"Young love." You shake your head. It filled you with a certain melancholy, watching him find love so quickly.
"It's not young love. It's simple determination." The lady of the hour insists, her head poking out of a door held ajar. Candace - Candy was far too personal a nickname for you to use until you had the chance to share it with your bookclub - made her way out of the kitchen with an icing-stained apron strewn across her well-pressed suit.
"You needn't say more, dear. I was young and bold too, once. Though I'd certainly say my ex was bolder - did I ever share the story of how we met?" You tease. Barry's a blushing wreck, having long ago forgotten all about your order, but Candace has the face of a poker champion as she makes her way behind him.
"A few times. I'm sure Candy will gladly listen. Do you want me to go check out the cupcakes you made? I can get started on the next batch while I'm at it." Barry sputters. You resist the urge to cackle at his hastily-made excuses, especially when Candace shakes her head.
"No you will not." She ducks beneath the counter.
"I won't?" Barry blinks.
"You're going to take your lunchbreak." She rises back up with a papery rustling, a rolled-up lunchbag in her hands. She practically shoves it into his arms.
Barry unrolls it, flipping it open wide enough to take a peek. "Did you pack me lunch? Is that what you were making sure I didn't see you pack up this morning?" He questions, an embarrassed smile flicking across his face.
"I did. You think I don't notice that your lunchbreaks, when you remember to take them, are just you eating pizza next door?" Candy folds her arms.
"Thanks, Candy. I'm sure it'll be as great as everything else you make." Barry nods.
"I had better hear from you if it isn't." She insists. The two of them are starting to remind you of all the children you'd watch flirt with one another on the playground back when you taught. No wonder Candace had such a good poker face - she was probably trying her absolute hardest to not look like a child embarrassed to say "I like you". It would ruin her entire image.
"Just let me finish ringing up Miss Henderson, okay?" He tries to protest. He hasn't even packed half of your rolls away.
"No, no. I'm quite fine waiting." You cackle. Candace doesn't give Barry the chance to finish either, quickly ushering him back to your side of the counter and insisting he take himself easy. He at least hugs you goodbye before being ushered to the breakroom.
Still, as you do your best to tease a flush out of Candace while you pay, you're left to wonder one thing. Could you convince Barry to give you an invitation to the wedding?
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Candy’d taken great time and care when packing your lunch. It was a bit of an alien experience, frankly, since your mother had trusted you were self-sufficient enough to pack your own lunch if you didn't buy it from the school cafeteria from age eight on. So with every well-wrapped item you pulled out of the bag, your feelings on the matter grew more complicated.
Of course your feelings were complicated. They were clouding your judgment in a great many ways which you didn't particularly feel like acknowledging. Candy, after all, was a Demon. A demon who was your employee, and who you held inordinate power over. She was not a mundane mortal. She was not prone to touching or letting others touch her. Yet she had been initiating skinship with you, or at least as close to it as she felt comfortable with, and you had accepted the gesture.
You take a bite of the sandwich she'd made. It's delicious.
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In these trying times, community was more important than trying to persuade people to join the faith. That some people did not respond well to your faith, or to your attempts at using it as a tool to soothe and calm, was a thing you understood well. This is why, when the Pandemic had hit, you had not taken it nearly as poorly as some of your fellows.
They had seen it as an opportunity and a test alike. As a time to ensure that their flock could attend mass no matter what, or as a thing that simply did not exist, or as a thing through which the flock could be made to grow.
You had seen it as the reminder it truly was. That it was high time to pay more attention to certain programs you had neglected, and to do as Jesus would, and reach out to the poor, and the needy, and those most impacted by the horrible plague wracking the land. Bread, wine, and cheese.
Even if he had never once attended your mass, Barry had been a friend since long before he'd casually mentioned that he owned a bakery. From there the question of if he'd like to donate his leftovers to charity had been mere formality. For over a year he had greeted you as the sun set and with warm, fresh goods ready to be passed to the needy the next day, or distributed to the appropriate shelters and other such services by yourself before the night was over.
Instead of coming alone, he now came with a smile and companionship.
Barry and Candace's arms were laden with boxes as the two of them waited for the garage door to finish raising. "I'm just saying, Candy. You don't have to keep making me lunch too." A conversation already in progress carried itself to your ears. You did your best to keep judgment or scorn for the nickname from your mind. Barry was a kind, simple man - he only used the name with earnest affection.
"You bring this up every day, but every day you eat the lunch I pack you." Young Candace giggled. It is not the word most would apply to her laughter, you think. Giggling implied something girlish, or carefree; and her laughter was too heavy and her suit so professional it probably gave stock brokers envy. "If you feel that way, why don't you act on it, hm?" She poked his side with her elbow.
It was perhaps harsh to judge her so, yet Candace struck you as a giggler simply because to laugh at all was to be flustered or show off a side of herself too deep for it to be anything but girlish.
"Fine, then. If you want to play it like that, then I'll just have to make a more impressive dinner than last night AND start packing you lunch as well!" Barry threatens. You nod, sure to give him a thumbs up as you take his box from him.
"The most threatening thing I have ever heard. Satan trembles in his boots, and He stays in heaven for fear of what He's made." Candace rolls her eyes, following your head as you gesture towards where the boxes belong.
Their conversation continues with little room for you to contribute as you move their donations onto a small table, box after box and gentle flirting after domestic dispute.
"Just one more box - I'll be right back." Barry promises when the pile grows high before you. The two of you nod, content to wait while he runs off.
It was not the first time you had been left alone with young Candace. Perhaps, if you were a lesser man, you might try to ask her about her faith, or why you had never seen her in the pews. You were not a dumb man, however, and so you were merely uncertain of what to say to fill the silence.
You don't think you need to fill it in the first place. Your concerns - over the couple moving in together before marriage, or her nickname, or her casual blasphemy - seem unfounded compared to the purity of their growing relationship.
"Did you know that we don't charge for wedding reservations when we're the ones officiating them here?" You decide. Candace raises an eyebrow, looking your way.
"I'll keep it in mind. I'm sure I'll find someone to pass it along." She nods. That was all you needed, really. Let her play coy.
"I'm sure you will." Well. That or an invitation, you decide with a nod.
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Winter finds itself turning to spring before you even have the chance to realize snow and mush have transformed into rain and mud. Spring is nearly summer before the season has begun to set in, and despite things opening up, the pandemic is nowhere near over.
You still remember the original reason Candy asked to stay at your house. Neither of you particularly care, and she makes no effort to leave or seek her own place to stay. You cook for one another with passion and aggression, and for the first time in years, you feel inspired to truly improve. To not just be satisfied with how Candy praises everything you make her, but to match her inordinate skill and growth.
The only time this changes is on Sunday, when you finally crash, and Candy is left without your protests to stop her from cooking every meal of the day when she's not sitting beside you. It makes her absence in your bed grow stronger by the day.
You'd expected her smell, her impression, to fade. It instead seems to grow stronger, the difference between when Candy decides to put an arm around you and you doing the same, making her imagined absence so much starker until that starkness fades to the closeness of your dreams.
One night, in your dreams, you blurrily blinked your eyes open only to find Candy's unwavering gaze meeting your own, her hand hugging your arm as she gently places it at rest at her back. When you tried forcing your eyes open again you expected to find nothing in reality but the illusion of warmth where she had been in your dreams.
Instead, you found Candy, back turned to you as she pulled you closer.
You don’t think you mind as you drift back to sleep. You just wish it was real.