Fic: Touching Evil (US), Creegan/Branca, "The Most Important Meal of the Day"

[anxietygrrl]

edanielyra and kirbyfest requested Creegan/Branca. Blame kirbyfest for the revelation that if you say the word "waffle" enough times, it starts to sound dirty. Or maybe that's just me.



Her face lit up just the tiniest bit when the waitress set the plate in front of her. She tried to hide it, because the face of a world-weary murder cop at the end of a three day stakeout absolutely should not light up at the sight of breakfast, but he saw definite childlike joy. She couldn't help herself. The goriest dismembered corpse she could detach from and not react, but fluffy waffles, whipped cream, and strawberries hit some primal Susan-chord, and she just -- if briefly -- lit up.

He loved that about her.

"Why is Belgium the only country that gets their own waffles?" he asked. "Is that a NATO thing?"

"I don't think waffles are in the NATO charter, no." She raised her fork and began to carefully study her plate, deciding on the best approach for maximum enjoyment. He saw her notice the powdered sugar, and grinned behind his coffee cup.

"What?" she asked, because she'd seen the grin, because he hadn't been trying to hide it.

"Nothing. You like waffles, huh?"

"I... Yes. I like waffles. Is there something funny about that?"

"No. No, waffles are great."

"Okay." She went back to evenly distributing toppings over each square of the flaky, delicious grid, and when she was satisfied, she cut into it -- precisely perpendicularly -- with the side of her fork. She lifted the first bite to her mouth, but paused before eating. "You're still staring at me."

"No, I'm not. Look, there's a waitress. Look, there's a guy in a bad toupee," he pointed. If her reaction was any indication, he'd probably said that too loudly. "And here's some toast." He picked up the toast triangle from his own plate and finished it in two bites. "Mmm. Toast."

"You definitely need some sleep."

"Sleep may be among the many things I need," he conceded. Then he pretended to turn his attention to his own food -- Denver omelet, side of bacon, side of hashbrowns, side of pancakes -- while he covertly watched her eat her waffle. He was glad she hadn't ordered eggs. It wouldn't be as much fun to watch her eat eggs.

He watched the way her lips closed over the tines of the fork before she slowly drew it out again. He watched as her tongue darted out to lick a bit of whipped cream from her bottom lip.

He looked down at his half-eaten omelet and poked it with his fork. Maybe he should've gotten waffles. He turned to the pancakes instead, mushed some butter on top of them, and then began to spin the syrup carousel. He picked up one of the pitchers and held it up to the light. "What the hell is boysenberry, anyway? Have you ever seen a boysenberry?"

"They're poisonous until they're cooked, I think."

"Oh, score," he proclaimed, dousing his pancakes. "The fugu of breakfast toppings. Living on the edge."

"If that's what you want to tell yourself. Oh, and you've got syrup on your face, Evel Knievel." She reached across the table and wiped the corner of his mouth. With her thumb. And then licked the syrup off, all apparently without thinking.

"I want to have breakfast with you every morning," he blurted out. "Seriously. You eat waffles like no one else on the planet." He'd even make the damn waffles. From scratch. They could sit at the kitchen table -- in his head it was a nice round, wooden table in a sunny corner -- and share a copy of the Chronicle, trading Arts for Sports for International, tossing away Business. She'd be wearing a t-shirt and a pair of fuzzy socks, and he'd have on boxer shorts. He didn't own any, but she'd buy him some, just for Sunday breakfast. Her fuzzy socks would brush against his calves, and he'd quietly sip his orange juice and watch her eat waffles. And then after breakfast he'd kiss her and she'd taste like strawberries, and then--

"They're just waffles," she laughed. But she also blushed, just a little, as if she'd somehow eavesdropped on his rambling fantasy.

"No, you have some sort of fascinating relationship with the waffles that I can't begin to understand."

"David, do you want some of the waffle?" she asked, gesturing toward the last lonely piece remaining on her plate. "Is that what this is about?"

God no. Somehow, it was suddenly about fuzzy socks and the Sunday Chronicle. "Are you offering me your waffle, Susan?"

She raised her eyebrows, just a little. "Maybe. How badly do you want it?"

"We are still talking about breakfast, right?"

She laughed, and ate the last piece herself. It was cooled off and soggy by now, but she still closed her eyes and smiled around her fork.

He didn't realize it, but his face lit up.

*~*~*~*~

Hope that was satisfactory! Now taking requests for Thursday. (Lord, what am I getting myself into?)

Comments

[anxietygrrl.livejournal.com]

I could have sworn we saw him in briefs once. Then again, hiddenw's 'going commando' theory works for me, too. ;)

I don't know if he'd actually fantasize such a thing, but I do think he's someone who'd hop on board a train of thought and ride it til the end of the line, without having a clue where it's going, and yet not be particularly surprised when he got to the final station.

Er, or something.