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Parapines but slow burn cake making turns to watching monster movies and one of them falling asleep. I just want wholesome moments I can audibly “aww” at. –yamagache

“Okay, so, what kind of cake are we making?”
“I, uh, actually haven’t decided yet. Figured we could m-maybe, um … also do that part t-together? I mean, y’know, since you know the Multibear better than me?”
“I.”
“Phew! Glad you agree!”
“No, that’s not … Okay, whatever, let’s do this.”
Norman pulled an old and greasy cookbook ("The Agony and the Ecstasy of Cooking, Dessert Edition" by Betty Crackpot) out of a stack on top of the fridge. As he flipped through it, he mused, “One thing’s for certain: it can’t be a chocolate cake.”
That statement surprised Dipper. “Why not?”
“Well, he’s a bear. Bears can’t eat chocolate.”
“No, you’re thinking of dogs. Cats, too. But not pigs and goats, though. Those gluttonous little—” Dipper glanced around self-consciously, but they were still alone in the kitchen, still alone in Norman’s house, “—b-bastards can and will eat anything you leave lying around. Or anything you carefully set aside in a fricative drawer for later.”
“Heh! I see you’re still b-bitter ‘bout them stealing from your Summerween stash.”
“They didn’t just steal from it! They ravaged it! Ransacked, pillaged, and plundered it like the b-bastard lovechildren of Genghis Kahn and a particularly foul-tempered Viking!”
“Ha! W-well, all the same, I still think we shouldn’t do chocolate,” Norman asserted. “Just, y’know, to be safe. Wouldn’t want to p-poison him on his first ever birthday party.”
“That would be awkward,” Dipper conceded.
“Still can’t believe he’s never had a party. I mean, like, he’s over a hundred!”
“Yeah, but he is also a bear. Or bears, plural. Anyway what should we bake instead?”
“How about … th-this one?” Norman pointed to a recipe, as if wholly at random (though it wholly wasn’t at random). Then he sort of casually—yet very deliberately—did not slide the book over nor step aside.
As a result, an oblivious Dipper had to lean in close to him to read it. “Ooo! Cinnamon Swirl Cake! I love cinnamon!”
“R-really? Oh, yeah, I totally f-forgot,” Norman said, though he totally hadn’t forgotten. “I like it, too. Oh! And so d-does the Multibear! What an absolutely unplanned c-coincidence!” Norman said, though it absolutely wasn’t unplanned. “Guess we could, um, make this one?”
“Heck yeah, man! Let’s blow this cinna-bomb!”
Norman grinned, then went to fetch the ingredients. They were all sitting together on the first shelf in the pantry, as if completely by luck (though it completely wasn’t by luck).
“Cinna-bomb … Heh! Classic … How am I still single?”
A series of possible responses flashed through Norman’s mind (“I wonder the same thing, honestly, because you’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met,” and “Y’know, we could both stop being single. Together. If you want. Please want that,” and “Let me be your boyfriend. Let me be your fiancé. Let me marry you on an autumn night under a full moon,” and “Take me. Right now. Right here,” and “I love you. I’ve loved you ever since we first met. I’ll love you forever until my dying breath … I didn’t realize that would rhyme.”), but they were all repressed by reflex. Instead, he asked, “S-so, um … How goes, er, Mabel’s gift project? She figured out how to knit a s-sweater for the Multibear yet?”
“Nah, and she’s abandoned that idea as impracticable if it’s going to be a surprise, since she’d have to, like, measure him and engineer it around him and stuff. Instead, she and the girls are trying to knit what they’re calling CocoChmabel’s Literal Infinity Scarf™.”
“A literal infinity scarf?”
“No, a Literal Infinity Scarf™.”
“How are you making that sound with your mouth? So, anyway, a scarf?”
“Yeah, combining some transdimensional, quantum science and some magic formulae in the Journal,” Dipper replied, his eyes now skimming over the recipe. “It’ll have unicorn mane, bigfoot hair, and threads from an anansi spiderweb woven in it. If all goes right, it should always expand or contract to be the perfect size for whoever’s wearing it … Or, um, rather … it should always have already been the perfect size by the time whoever puts it on? It’s, like, kind of one of those Schrodinger’s Cat things. Which fits since, y’know, quantum yarn for a quantum cat.”
“Ha! I entirely understand!” Norman said, though he entirely didn’t understand. And though more possible responses flashed through his mind (“You’re so smart. Kiss me,” and “You’re so cute. Kiss me,” and “You’re so funny. Kiss me.”), he asked, “You’re not, er, helping with all that? Math and magic and monsterhunting? Didn’t you want too?”
Dipper shrugged. “We already had all the materials, and Candy and I figured out all of the calculations earlier today while Mabel and Grenda started weaving the yarn. They didn’t need me after that—not to keep weaving nor do the knitting. Besides, um … I wanted to help you bake the cake, so …”
There was a beat of silence, warm and pink, during which they both found something that apparently required their attentive concentration. The recipe for one, the ingredient containers for the other. Conveniently enough, this also kept their expressions from being seen.
“Hey, uh, this only calls for a tablespoon of cinnamon,” Dipper practically proclaimed (in a voice that practically insisted things weren’t awkward in the slightest). “What the heck? That’s nowhere near enough. Even if we’re only making a single batch—which’d be ludicrous, since the Multibear has, like, six mouths and they’re all humongous—it’s nowhere near enough. We gotta at least triple the cinnamon.”
“Makes sense,” Norman agreed at once.
For the next little while, they followed the recipe with minimal difficulty; they did get briefly derailed when it called for “butter softened” (because “What the heck’s that even mean? Butter’s always soft! That’s why you can cut it with a butter knife, and don’t need a real knife!”) and “sour milk” (because “WHO IN THE 79 HELLS USES RUINED MILK ON PURPOSE?!”), but eventually their batter was poured into the pan and popped into the oven.
“Okay, says it needs … an hour to bake. Timer … is … set! So … now what do we do?” Norman asked. “You wanna maybe … I dunno … w-watch a movie, or something?”
“Like one of your painfully old, ridiculously cheesy, horror B-movies?”
“They’re not painfully old, they’re classics,” Norman replied a tad defensively.
“Heh! You don’t deny the cheesiness or the B-listing?”
“… There’s no point denying obvious facts.”
“Ha! If only the government would agree to that policy, too. Well, I’m all for putting on something to watch and/or mercilessly make fun of,” Dipper declared. “What about that one—what was it called?—you wanted to show me about, like, the cult of evil children in a farm town who sacrifice all the adults to their evil god? It was based on a Steven Queen story, I think?”
“You mean 'Young’uns of the Yams'?”
“That’s the one! Let’s watch that!”
“O-okay!” Norman dashed up to his room to grab the DVD, dashed back down to pop it into the TV, and plonked down beside Dipper on the couch. “You’re gonna love this one! I’m … I’m sure you’re gonna l-love it. Yeah. It’s got this kid villain who’s just like if Li’l Gideon was some sorta weird, um … well, antichristian, ‘cause he leads the worship of a demon, but still, like, in a very evangelical christian, I guess?”
“Huh. Cool!”
Unfortunately, the early afternoon sun was shining into the living room, making it muzzy with warmth and a glare of light. The aroma of baking cake wafting in from the kitchen also made it feel extra homey—a cozy and relaxing environment. All that, combined with the boys’ perpetually sleep-deprived state of being, the fact it was getting towards 2pm (the most lethargic hour of the day according to SCIENCE!), and that the whole movie was set in the allegedly great state of Nebraska (the most boring state in the Union according to SCIENCE!), they were both out like lights within 20 minutes.
Slumped against each other, together they slept through some hilariously bad acting from children and adults alike, a hilariously bad music score comprised entirely of either synthesizers or a falsetto choir chanting in Latin, and some hilariously bad jumpscares, blood splatters, and other “suspenseful” clichés. It was a shame, really, because they would’ve had a ball making fun of such hackery. The gawky, teenaged, knife-wielding, soulless ginger (who could seemingly unhinge his jaw whenever he shrieked, “PRAISE GOD! PRAISE THE YAMS!”) alone would’ve given them at least a month’s worth of inside jokes. But no, they slept through it all like cats flopped together. And they might’ve slept like that for hours more if it weren’t for—FWEEE! FWEEE!—the sudden, piercing shrill of the kitchen smoke detector.
“Wha?!”
“… the cake!” Norman realized, shambling for the kitchen in a panic.
“Fricassee!” Dipper near-cussed, hot on his heels.
Smoke came billowing out the oven, off what was now a 9”x13” brick of cinnamon-flavored charcoal. It took about two minutes of frantic activity—opening all windows and doors, turning on all fans to the highest setting, and even beating at the air themselves with towels—before the air was finally clear enough to silence the smoke detector. Only then could they both stand together, looking down at their handiwork.
“… Th-think it’s ruined?”
Dipper poked the blackened surface, causing a chunk of it to crumble into ash. “… Yep. Doubt even a wild animal would eat this, even with a coat of frosting. And the Multibear is anything but wild; he’s got some pretty refined tastes.”
“You’re just saying that ‘cause he likes BABBA, too …” Norman heaved a sigh then. “Guess we’d better make a n-new one.”
“Yep.”
****
Fortunately, they had no problems whatsoever with the second one, and the Multibear loved it and his new scarf (which could wrap around all of his necks at once) immensely.

Description
Parapines but slow burn cake making turns to watching monster movies and one of them falling asleep. I just want wholesome moments I can audibly “aww” at. –yamagache

“Okay, so, what kind of cake are we making?”
“I, uh, actually haven’t decided yet. Figured we could m-maybe, um … also do that part t-together? I mean, y’know, since you know the Multibear better than me?”
“I.”
“Phew! Glad you agree!”
“No, that’s not … Okay, whatever, let’s do this.”
Norman pulled an old and greasy cookbook ("The Agony and the Ecstasy of Cooking, Dessert Edition" by Betty Crackpot) out of a stack on top of the fridge. As he flipped through it, he mused, “One thing’s for certain: it can’t be a chocolate cake.”
That statement surprised Dipper. “Why not?”
“Well, he’s a bear. Bears can’t eat chocolate.”
“No, you’re thinking of dogs. Cats, too. But not pigs and goats, though. Those gluttonous little—” Dipper glanced around self-consciously, but they were still alone in the kitchen, still alone in Norman’s house, “—b-bastards can and will eat anything you leave lying around. Or anything you carefully set aside in a fricative drawer for later.”
“Heh! I see you’re still b-bitter ‘bout them stealing from your Summerween stash.”
“They didn’t just steal from it! They ravaged it! Ransacked, pillaged, and plundered it like the b-bastard lovechildren of Genghis Kahn and a particularly foul-tempered Viking!”
“Ha! W-well, all the same, I still think we shouldn’t do chocolate,” Norman asserted. “Just, y’know, to be safe. Wouldn’t want to p-poison him on his first ever birthday party.”
“That would be awkward,” Dipper conceded.
“Still can’t believe he’s never had a party. I mean, like, he’s over a hundred!”
“Yeah, but he is also a bear. Or bears, plural. Anyway what should we bake instead?”
“How about … th-this one?” Norman pointed to a recipe, as if wholly at random (though it wholly wasn’t at random). Then he sort of casually—yet very deliberately—did not slide the book over nor step aside.
As a result, an oblivious Dipper had to lean in close to him to read it. “Ooo! Cinnamon Swirl Cake! I love cinnamon!”
“R-really? Oh, yeah, I totally f-forgot,” Norman said, though he totally hadn’t forgotten. “I like it, too. Oh! And so d-does the Multibear! What an absolutely unplanned c-coincidence!” Norman said, though it absolutely wasn’t unplanned. “Guess we could, um, make this one?”
“Heck yeah, man! Let’s blow this cinna-bomb!”
Norman grinned, then went to fetch the ingredients. They were all sitting together on the first shelf in the pantry, as if completely by luck (though it completely wasn’t by luck).
“Cinna-bomb … Heh! Classic … How am I still single?”
A series of possible responses flashed through Norman’s mind (“I wonder the same thing, honestly, because you’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met,” and “Y’know, we could both stop being single. Together. If you want. Please want that,” and “Let me be your boyfriend. Let me be your fiancé. Let me marry you on an autumn night under a full moon,” and “Take me. Right now. Right here,” and “I love you. I’ve loved you ever since we first met. I’ll love you forever until my dying breath … I didn’t realize that would rhyme.”), but they were all repressed by reflex. Instead, he asked, “S-so, um … How goes, er, Mabel’s gift project? She figured out how to knit a s-sweater for the Multibear yet?”
“Nah, and she’s abandoned that idea as impracticable if it’s going to be a surprise, since she’d have to, like, measure him and engineer it around him and stuff. Instead, she and the girls are trying to knit what they’re calling CocoChmabel’s Literal Infinity Scarf™.”
“A literal infinity scarf?”
“No, a Literal Infinity Scarf™.”
“How are you making that sound with your mouth? So, anyway, a scarf?”
“Yeah, combining some transdimensional, quantum science and some magic formulae in the Journal,” Dipper replied, his eyes now skimming over the recipe. “It’ll have unicorn mane, bigfoot hair, and threads from an anansi spiderweb woven in it. If all goes right, it should always expand or contract to be the perfect size for whoever’s wearing it … Or, um, rather … it should always have already been the perfect size by the time whoever puts it on? It’s, like, kind of one of those Schrodinger’s Cat things. Which fits since, y’know, quantum yarn for a quantum cat.”
“Ha! I entirely understand!” Norman said, though he entirely didn’t understand. And though more possible responses flashed through his mind (“You’re so smart. Kiss me,” and “You’re so cute. Kiss me,” and “You’re so funny. Kiss me.”), he asked, “You’re not, er, helping with all that? Math and magic and monsterhunting? Didn’t you want too?”
Dipper shrugged. “We already had all the materials, and Candy and I figured out all of the calculations earlier today while Mabel and Grenda started weaving the yarn. They didn’t need me after that—not to keep weaving nor do the knitting. Besides, um … I wanted to help you bake the cake, so …”
There was a beat of silence, warm and pink, during which they both found something that apparently required their attentive concentration. The recipe for one, the ingredient containers for the other. Conveniently enough, this also kept their expressions from being seen.
“Hey, uh, this only calls for a tablespoon of cinnamon,” Dipper practically proclaimed (in a voice that practically insisted things weren’t awkward in the slightest). “What the heck? That’s nowhere near enough. Even if we’re only making a single batch—which’d be ludicrous, since the Multibear has, like, six mouths and they’re all humongous—it’s nowhere near enough. We gotta at least triple the cinnamon.”
“Makes sense,” Norman agreed at once.
For the next little while, they followed the recipe with minimal difficulty; they did get briefly derailed when it called for “butter softened” (because “What the heck’s that even mean? Butter’s always soft! That’s why you can cut it with a butter knife, and don’t need a real knife!”) and “sour milk” (because “WHO IN THE 79 HELLS USES RUINED MILK ON PURPOSE?!”), but eventually their batter was poured into the pan and popped into the oven.
“Okay, says it needs … an hour to bake. Timer … is … set! So … now what do we do?” Norman asked. “You wanna maybe … I dunno … w-watch a movie, or something?”
“Like one of your painfully old, ridiculously cheesy, horror B-movies?”
“They’re not painfully old, they’re classics,” Norman replied a tad defensively.
“Heh! You don’t deny the cheesiness or the B-listing?”
“… There’s no point denying obvious facts.”
“Ha! If only the government would agree to that policy, too. Well, I’m all for putting on something to watch and/or mercilessly make fun of,” Dipper declared. “What about that one—what was it called?—you wanted to show me about, like, the cult of evil children in a farm town who sacrifice all the adults to their evil god? It was based on a Steven Queen story, I think?”
“You mean 'Young’uns of the Yams'?”
“That’s the one! Let’s watch that!”
“O-okay!” Norman dashed up to his room to grab the DVD, dashed back down to pop it into the TV, and plonked down beside Dipper on the couch. “You’re gonna love this one! I’m … I’m sure you’re gonna l-love it. Yeah. It’s got this kid villain who’s just like if Li’l Gideon was some sorta weird, um … well, antichristian, ‘cause he leads the worship of a demon, but still, like, in a very evangelical christian, I guess?”
“Huh. Cool!”
Unfortunately, the early afternoon sun was shining into the living room, making it muzzy with warmth and a glare of light. The aroma of baking cake wafting in from the kitchen also made it feel extra homey—a cozy and relaxing environment. All that, combined with the boys’ perpetually sleep-deprived state of being, the fact it was getting towards 2pm (the most lethargic hour of the day according to SCIENCE!), and that the whole movie was set in the allegedly great state of Nebraska (the most boring state in the Union according to SCIENCE!), they were both out like lights within 20 minutes.
Slumped against each other, together they slept through some hilariously bad acting from children and adults alike, a hilariously bad music score comprised entirely of either synthesizers or a falsetto choir chanting in Latin, and some hilariously bad jumpscares, blood splatters, and other “suspenseful” clichés. It was a shame, really, because they would’ve had a ball making fun of such hackery. The gawky, teenaged, knife-wielding, soulless ginger (who could seemingly unhinge his jaw whenever he shrieked, “PRAISE GOD! PRAISE THE YAMS!”) alone would’ve given them at least a month’s worth of inside jokes. But no, they slept through it all like cats flopped together. And they might’ve slept like that for hours more if it weren’t for—FWEEE! FWEEE!—the sudden, piercing shrill of the kitchen smoke detector.
“Wha?!”
“… the cake!” Norman realized, shambling for the kitchen in a panic.
“Fricassee!” Dipper near-cussed, hot on his heels.
Smoke came billowing out the oven, off what was now a 9”x13” brick of cinnamon-flavored charcoal. It took about two minutes of frantic activity—opening all windows and doors, turning on all fans to the highest setting, and even beating at the air themselves with towels—before the air was finally clear enough to silence the smoke detector. Only then could they both stand together, looking down at their handiwork.
“… Th-think it’s ruined?”
Dipper poked the blackened surface, causing a chunk of it to crumble into ash. “… Yep. Doubt even a wild animal would eat this, even with a coat of frosting. And the Multibear is anything but wild; he’s got some pretty refined tastes.”
“You’re just saying that ‘cause he likes BABBA, too …” Norman heaved a sigh then. “Guess we’d better make a n-new one.”
“Yep.”
****
Fortunately, they had no problems whatsoever with the second one, and the Multibear loved it and his new scarf (which could wrap around all of his necks at once) immensely.