because V and I are now officially each other's Fandom Next-of-Kin, and because I am ridiculous
"Is this your way of telling me you want to call this off?" asks Laura, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen and side-eyeing the stereo like she's itching to set it on fire.
"This is my way of letting you know how confident I am that you love me despite my flaws," I tell her as I pipe frosting around the edge of the cake. "It's also my way of establishing dominance in the kitchen. Your concept of a kitchen is a coffeemaker and a bowl of fruit. Don't tell me what music I'm allowed to play in here while I create my epic masterpieces of pastry."
"Coldplay is not music," says Laura. "I can't take this. I will grudgingly accept that you are a person who sometimes subjects her eardrums to painful bullshit, and I will adore you anyway, but I refuse to let you subject my eardrums to your despicable--"
I stick a fingerful of vegan buttercream in her open mouth. She keeps mumbling incoherently until her tongue catches the frosting, at which point she reluctantly quiets down and sucks the rest of it off my finger, somehow managing to simultaneously pout as she does so.
"Go put on Danger Days," I say, retracting my finger.
"Thank god," she says and makes a beeline for the stereo.
The doorbell rings, and I go to let Hayley in. She sweeps me into a hug and then immediately heads for the pile of crusty bowls and measuring cups in the sink. "Shut up and let me see your jazz hands!" she sings along to the music as she turns on the faucet and reaches for a wooden spoon. Laura obliges with the request, fluttering her fingers dramatically, and then comes up behind Hayley to give her a grope cleverly disguised as a hug. Hayley chuckles and flicks water over her shoulder, which Laura deftly ducks.
I cover up the cake and put it in the refrigerator before going to sit down. Laura intercepts me halfway to the couch. "You need to get changed," she says.
I look down. "I do?" I haven't gotten any flour on my clothes or anything. They look fine to me.
"You do," she says firmly.
"I was going to wear this, though."
Laura gets a glint in her eye, the one she gets when someone misuses an apostrophe or assumes she's going to lose to them at sports because she's tiny. It's a glint that means retribution is on its way. I feebly clutch my Science Needs Your Brain T-shirt to my bosom.
"No," I say, "no, wait, we're not getting actually married, there's no consummation involved in this, you don't get to rip off my--ack, ACK! My pants..."
Forty minutes, eight scarves, four dresser drawers, and several bottles of mysterious glop later, I am re-dressed and war-painted. When we emerge, Hayley is finished washing the dishes, and seems to have taught herself the violin.
"Time to go," I say, and she reluctantly puts my violin back on the shelf.
The ceremony is brief, which is good, because I think there's mascara in my eye. Mascara is the goop that goes on the eyelashes, right? Whatever goop is the goop that goes on the eyelashes, that's what's going on in my eye when Franzeska Dickson of the OTW Abuse Committee raises her black-robed arms of power and says, "Hi guys. I have you, Verbyna and jedusaur, down as each other's mutual Fannish Next of Kin. You're all set."
I'm never wearing mascara again. This shit is like shampoo, it's like it has some kind of magnetic attraction to my retina. "Cake," I say.
"Fuck yeah, cake," says Laura, smiling at me.
"I'm making you dance with me to Coldplay at the reception," I tell her.
She takes my hand and squeezes it fondly. "I will eviscerate you with your own kitchen knives."
I squeeze back. "Love you too."
This entry was originally posted at http://jedusaur.dreamwidth.org/59986.html.
"This is my way of letting you know how confident I am that you love me despite my flaws," I tell her as I pipe frosting around the edge of the cake. "It's also my way of establishing dominance in the kitchen. Your concept of a kitchen is a coffeemaker and a bowl of fruit. Don't tell me what music I'm allowed to play in here while I create my epic masterpieces of pastry."
"Coldplay is not music," says Laura. "I can't take this. I will grudgingly accept that you are a person who sometimes subjects her eardrums to painful bullshit, and I will adore you anyway, but I refuse to let you subject my eardrums to your despicable--"
I stick a fingerful of vegan buttercream in her open mouth. She keeps mumbling incoherently until her tongue catches the frosting, at which point she reluctantly quiets down and sucks the rest of it off my finger, somehow managing to simultaneously pout as she does so.
"Go put on Danger Days," I say, retracting my finger.
"Thank god," she says and makes a beeline for the stereo.
The doorbell rings, and I go to let Hayley in. She sweeps me into a hug and then immediately heads for the pile of crusty bowls and measuring cups in the sink. "Shut up and let me see your jazz hands!" she sings along to the music as she turns on the faucet and reaches for a wooden spoon. Laura obliges with the request, fluttering her fingers dramatically, and then comes up behind Hayley to give her a grope cleverly disguised as a hug. Hayley chuckles and flicks water over her shoulder, which Laura deftly ducks.
I cover up the cake and put it in the refrigerator before going to sit down. Laura intercepts me halfway to the couch. "You need to get changed," she says.
I look down. "I do?" I haven't gotten any flour on my clothes or anything. They look fine to me.
"You do," she says firmly.
"I was going to wear this, though."
Laura gets a glint in her eye, the one she gets when someone misuses an apostrophe or assumes she's going to lose to them at sports because she's tiny. It's a glint that means retribution is on its way. I feebly clutch my Science Needs Your Brain T-shirt to my bosom.
"No," I say, "no, wait, we're not getting actually married, there's no consummation involved in this, you don't get to rip off my--ack, ACK! My pants..."
Forty minutes, eight scarves, four dresser drawers, and several bottles of mysterious glop later, I am re-dressed and war-painted. When we emerge, Hayley is finished washing the dishes, and seems to have taught herself the violin.
"Time to go," I say, and she reluctantly puts my violin back on the shelf.
The ceremony is brief, which is good, because I think there's mascara in my eye. Mascara is the goop that goes on the eyelashes, right? Whatever goop is the goop that goes on the eyelashes, that's what's going on in my eye when Franzeska Dickson of the OTW Abuse Committee raises her black-robed arms of power and says, "Hi guys. I have you, Verbyna and jedusaur, down as each other's mutual Fannish Next of Kin. You're all set."
I'm never wearing mascara again. This shit is like shampoo, it's like it has some kind of magnetic attraction to my retina. "Cake," I say.
"Fuck yeah, cake," says Laura, smiling at me.
"I'm making you dance with me to Coldplay at the reception," I tell her.
She takes my hand and squeezes it fondly. "I will eviscerate you with your own kitchen knives."
I squeeze back. "Love you too."
This entry was originally posted at http://jedusaur.dreamwidth.org/59986.html.