This is what happens when I mix twizzlers and codeine.
Marco & Tobias. No slash unless you really want to go looking for it (although we all know I'm a Jake/Marco fiend). Sillyfic. Post-series, but I abused canon to suit my own needs.
Completely pointless. COMPLETELY.
Waffles at Four AM
Yesterday, Tobias had an existential crisis.
I could tell it was an existential crisis because I couldn't think of any other possible reason why I would wake up to the sight of Tobias, wearing Harry Potter slipper socks (Rachel's), sweatpants that should have gone to Goodwill at least four or five years ago (never seen 'em before) and a Bloom County t-shirt (Jake's - and okay, so this was my week to do the laundry and maybe I should pay more attention when sorting, but hey, he's the one who actually put it all on), standing in my bedroom doorway at four in the morning, holding a barbeque chicken leg in one hand and pointing accusingly at me with the other.
Well, maybe mind-sucking alien worms, but frankly, been there, done that, made the t-shirt. Last time the mind-sucking alien worms came up with a lot worse to chuck at me than a barbeque chicken wing, too, so even if that was the case, I was still ahead of the curve.
"Tobias," I said, propping myself up on my elbow and rather pleased with myself for getting it right on the first try with only two hours of sleep in me.
"Our lives," Tobias said, shaking the chicken leg at me, "are absurd."
That didn't take much consideration on my part. "Yes," I agreed. "Go back to sleep, Tobias."
Under normal circumstances, I doubt I'd be the first person Tobias came to with his crisis. My inability to deal with emotional difficulties is well-known. Infamous perhaps. They could write books on how not to deal with crises, just by observing me. But Rachel was in LA, testifying at the competency hearing of one Mr. George Edelman of the maple-and-cinnamon oatmeal affair and Ax was off in another galaxy - and right there you've almost certainly got a couple pieces of whatever it was that set Tobias off tonight.
Even Jake, it must be noted, wasn't around, having been called to DC to witness the interrogation of the former Visser Two. Tobias probably would have talked to Jake before me - well, maybe he would have. There's an unspoken, but strictly enforced rule that we don't take our problems to Jake. We justify it with the idea that he dealt with our problems for three very long years and the fact that he didn't blow his brains out before it was all over has as much to do with his strength as it does with his refusal to let the bad guys win.
So that left Cassie, and while Tobias was never on the outs with Cassie he was never exactly in with her either. Also, Cassie's prone to philosophizing on the best of days, and Tobias didn't look like he was in the mood for that. So Tobias came to me. Lucky, lucky me.
"You don't like pancakes," Tobias said flatly, leaning against the doorframe and taking a bite of his chicken leg.
The last time I'd checked, we didn't have chicken in the fridge. That fact bothered me almost as much as the non sequitor about pancakes.
"I do so," I said, narrowing my eyes at him. "I love pancakes. I live for pancakes. Go back to bed and in the morning I'll prove it to you by eating a stack as big as your head."
"You don't," Tobias countered around a mouthful of chicken. "You like waffles."
"They're the same thing, Tobias."
"No they aren't, because you like one and you don't like the other."
"I don’t like you a whole lot right at the moment. Does that make you a pancake?"
Tobias shook the chicken leg at me again. I resisted the urge to get out of bed and beat him with it. "So you admit you don't like pancakes?"
"Yes," I said, flopping back against the pillows. "You've found me out. I hate the fuckers. I've been eating them every weekend for most of my life just to fuck with your head. I don't know how you found me out, Bias."
"IHOP."
All right, that warranted further investigation. I propped myself back up. "The International House of Pancakes led you to me, huh?"
"You always get the Belgian Waffle," Tobias said. "No whip cream, no fruit, extra butter, old-fashioned maple syrup. Jake gets pancakes. I get pancakes. Rachel gets the lumberjack special."
"So your girlfriend can eat us under the table. All that proves is Rachel is more man than either of us. And we knew that."
Tobias glared with all the weight of a pissed-off predator, which didn't mesh at all with the slipper socks, trust me. "You never get pancakes. You always get the waffles."
"There had better be a point coming, Tobias."
"You always say we should make pancakes. But you don't like them."
"I like pancakes." Who the hell had crises about fucking pancakes, anyway? Tobias was right. Our lives were absurd. "I also like Belgian waffles from IHOP."
"You like pancakes," Tobias said warily.
"I like pancakes. I really, really like pancakes. Especially when you make them and I don't have to cook. But sometimes," I spoke slowly and clearly, "I like to get the Belgian waffle just for a change of pace."
"But you like pancakes."
"I like pancakes, Tobias. Really."
He seemed to mull over that for a moment while he polished off the chicken leg. I left him to it and nearly fell asleep sitting up.
"All right. So pancakes are okay. That's good. I like pancakes."
I grinned into my pillow. "I like pancakes, too, Tobias."
"So how come we never make waffles?"
"Jake hates the fuckers."
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah," I said as seriously as I could. "They make him constipated."
"So we should make some when he gets back from DC?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying here."
"Marco?"
"Yeah?"
"We're still pretty absurd."
Said the half-alien hawkboy with a pancake obsession. But I could turn into a gorilla, had died five times and my mom had once spear-headed the alien invasion of Earth. So who was I to talk?
I kicked off the blankets and rolled out of bed. "Wanna go to IHOP?"
Completely pointless. COMPLETELY.
Waffles at Four AM
Yesterday, Tobias had an existential crisis.
I could tell it was an existential crisis because I couldn't think of any other possible reason why I would wake up to the sight of Tobias, wearing Harry Potter slipper socks (Rachel's), sweatpants that should have gone to Goodwill at least four or five years ago (never seen 'em before) and a Bloom County t-shirt (Jake's - and okay, so this was my week to do the laundry and maybe I should pay more attention when sorting, but hey, he's the one who actually put it all on), standing in my bedroom doorway at four in the morning, holding a barbeque chicken leg in one hand and pointing accusingly at me with the other.
Well, maybe mind-sucking alien worms, but frankly, been there, done that, made the t-shirt. Last time the mind-sucking alien worms came up with a lot worse to chuck at me than a barbeque chicken wing, too, so even if that was the case, I was still ahead of the curve.
"Tobias," I said, propping myself up on my elbow and rather pleased with myself for getting it right on the first try with only two hours of sleep in me.
"Our lives," Tobias said, shaking the chicken leg at me, "are absurd."
That didn't take much consideration on my part. "Yes," I agreed. "Go back to sleep, Tobias."
Under normal circumstances, I doubt I'd be the first person Tobias came to with his crisis. My inability to deal with emotional difficulties is well-known. Infamous perhaps. They could write books on how not to deal with crises, just by observing me. But Rachel was in LA, testifying at the competency hearing of one Mr. George Edelman of the maple-and-cinnamon oatmeal affair and Ax was off in another galaxy - and right there you've almost certainly got a couple pieces of whatever it was that set Tobias off tonight.
Even Jake, it must be noted, wasn't around, having been called to DC to witness the interrogation of the former Visser Two. Tobias probably would have talked to Jake before me - well, maybe he would have. There's an unspoken, but strictly enforced rule that we don't take our problems to Jake. We justify it with the idea that he dealt with our problems for three very long years and the fact that he didn't blow his brains out before it was all over has as much to do with his strength as it does with his refusal to let the bad guys win.
So that left Cassie, and while Tobias was never on the outs with Cassie he was never exactly in with her either. Also, Cassie's prone to philosophizing on the best of days, and Tobias didn't look like he was in the mood for that. So Tobias came to me. Lucky, lucky me.
"You don't like pancakes," Tobias said flatly, leaning against the doorframe and taking a bite of his chicken leg.
The last time I'd checked, we didn't have chicken in the fridge. That fact bothered me almost as much as the non sequitor about pancakes.
"I do so," I said, narrowing my eyes at him. "I love pancakes. I live for pancakes. Go back to bed and in the morning I'll prove it to you by eating a stack as big as your head."
"You don't," Tobias countered around a mouthful of chicken. "You like waffles."
"They're the same thing, Tobias."
"No they aren't, because you like one and you don't like the other."
"I don’t like you a whole lot right at the moment. Does that make you a pancake?"
Tobias shook the chicken leg at me again. I resisted the urge to get out of bed and beat him with it. "So you admit you don't like pancakes?"
"Yes," I said, flopping back against the pillows. "You've found me out. I hate the fuckers. I've been eating them every weekend for most of my life just to fuck with your head. I don't know how you found me out, Bias."
"IHOP."
All right, that warranted further investigation. I propped myself back up. "The International House of Pancakes led you to me, huh?"
"You always get the Belgian Waffle," Tobias said. "No whip cream, no fruit, extra butter, old-fashioned maple syrup. Jake gets pancakes. I get pancakes. Rachel gets the lumberjack special."
"So your girlfriend can eat us under the table. All that proves is Rachel is more man than either of us. And we knew that."
Tobias glared with all the weight of a pissed-off predator, which didn't mesh at all with the slipper socks, trust me. "You never get pancakes. You always get the waffles."
"There had better be a point coming, Tobias."
"You always say we should make pancakes. But you don't like them."
"I like pancakes." Who the hell had crises about fucking pancakes, anyway? Tobias was right. Our lives were absurd. "I also like Belgian waffles from IHOP."
"You like pancakes," Tobias said warily.
"I like pancakes. I really, really like pancakes. Especially when you make them and I don't have to cook. But sometimes," I spoke slowly and clearly, "I like to get the Belgian waffle just for a change of pace."
"But you like pancakes."
"I like pancakes, Tobias. Really."
He seemed to mull over that for a moment while he polished off the chicken leg. I left him to it and nearly fell asleep sitting up.
"All right. So pancakes are okay. That's good. I like pancakes."
I grinned into my pillow. "I like pancakes, too, Tobias."
"So how come we never make waffles?"
"Jake hates the fuckers."
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah," I said as seriously as I could. "They make him constipated."
"So we should make some when he gets back from DC?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying here."
"Marco?"
"Yeah?"
"We're still pretty absurd."
Said the half-alien hawkboy with a pancake obsession. But I could turn into a gorilla, had died five times and my mom had once spear-headed the alien invasion of Earth. So who was I to talk?
I kicked off the blankets and rolled out of bed. "Wanna go to IHOP?"