COOK IN A PICKLE -- G
IDEK.
[title] Cook In A Pickle
[author] kissontheneck [a.k.a. fieryrogue]
[pairing] Cookleta
[beta] sara84, who also titled it for me so, how awesome is that??
[rating] G
[word count] 3197
[summary] David Cook is one sandwich away from being completely emasculated. (And David Archuleta is going to kill him, seriously.)
[disclaimer] Surely, I have nothing to do with either of these fine young men, no matter how much I wish I did.
[warnings] Pickled foods. And... crack. I mean not real crack, but like... you know what I mean.
[author's notes] This is for sara84, who laughed at me when I was (sorta) in Cook's same situation.
COOK IN A PICKLE
At four a.m., David Cook wakes up with the most brilliant chord progression humming through his brain. So brilliant, in fact, that he can't go back to sleep for fear of forgetting it. So brilliant that he will even disturb David's sleep, despite the fact that the latter has his arms strewn across Cook's middle. This is just too good. This is like, top iTunes download good.
It's like "Elevator" good.
So against David's sleepy grumblings he slips out of bed and tries to quietly make his way down to his work room. He works until the sun cracks through the wooden slats of the vertical blinds, which warms his skin and inspires him even more. He's scribbling notes and words across several unorganized pages of blank sheet music when David brings him coffee and toast around nine. The coffee goes cold and Dublin steals the better part of the toast, and around eleven-thirty Cook realizes that he's really kind of hungry. Starving even.
He finds a good place to stop and is humming his newly-established melody as he jogs down the stairs, feeling rather light and excited that he's finally got some work in which to immerse himself. It's been a long time since he's felt this way, so this really calls for a really good lunch. Like a towering turkey sandwich with every possible thing in the fridge layered onto it. Visions of Dagwood comics pull him in a beeline to the kitchen.
So the work begins. Bread, mayo, mustard, turkey, pepperjack cheese. Check, check, check. Lettuce and tomato. Absolutely. He's balancing some of those weird sprouts David bought onto one half of the sandwich (because, what the hell, right?) when he suddenly feels like something is missing. Something really important. But he already has a smörgåsbord of ingredients so he really can't figure out what it could possibly --
And then he sees the jar.
Pickles.
How could he forget the pickles? Pickles are the best part. So with a stupid grin on his face he grabs the jar and bumps the fridge door closed with his hip.
The heavy jar thumps down onto the laminate counter and Cook is turning the lid before the liquid inside even has a chance to settle. Except that the lid is not turning. It just... it just won't. He narrows his brow at it as if he can shame it into cooperation. He tries again. It is not going to budge.
An inner monologue starts, as it always does in these sorts of situations. This jar has been opened before. This should not be a problem. Obviously pickle jar gnomes have snuck in during the night and tightened the lid beyond human strength limits.
He's been doing so well at the gym lately though, and David even made a comment the other day about how he's going to have to start special ordering shirts that have wider sleeves to accommodate his burgeoning biceps. (He's pretty sure David likes his shirts the way they are already, but he'll take a compliment when he can get one.)
So he flexes his hands a little like people do before they take on the weight of their bench press bar, including blowing into his cupped hands for a second. He can do this. It is just a jar of pickles for goodness sake.
And yet his fingers again slip around the rim of the jar. Apparently, he can not do this.
Cook realizes, of course, that he could have a sandwich without pickles. But honestly, the pickles are what make the sandwich. A turkey on rye just isn't the same without the vinegary bite and Vlasic crunch. And so he tries again. He turns on the water in the sink and runs the top of the jar under it. He's not exactly sure why, but he's seen his mom do this a thousand times, so he figures he might as well try something.
Unfortunately, that damn lid still isn't budging, and now the entire thing is wet. How the hell is this supposed to be helpful? He shuts off the water and reaches for a kitchen towel, nearly dropping the entire thing on the floor in the process.
"Hey, Cookie! Ooh, yummy looking sandwich!"
David's voice carries across the kitchen as brightly as the mid-day sun that is now searing right into Cook's eyes. He furrows his brow at the slippery jar and tries to wipe it off.
"I'd have lunch with you, but I have to get going," David continues as he makes his way across the room and leans briefly in towards Cook and kisses his cheek. "I'm supposed to be at my photo shoot in forty minutes. I should have left like twenty minutes ago! What are you doing?"
By now Cook is again struggling to grip the jar lid and pry it off. He's got the towel wrapped around the lid not only because the jar is still damp, but he thinks Andrew did this once with success. Something about friction or such. He clutches the jar against his chest and makes an involuntary groaning sound as he nearly strains his wrist turning against the lid.
"Have a good time," he manages to grunt. He doesn't even look up; he's too focused on the little pickle fragments bobbing in the waves of juice, taunting him.
Cook is aware, however, that David is looking at him like he's out of his mind. Typical. David doesn't even like pickles, which is basically sacrilegious. Cook lets the towel drop to the floor as he now takes to pressuring the jar into submission. Gripping the giant jar by its girth, he lightly taps the neck of it against the edge of the counter.
"Oh my gosh, don't do that!" David declares, gripping at Cook's arm. "You're going to break it and then there will be glass and sticky juice all over the place."
Any other time Cook might make some sort of inappropriate joke here. Like, "Yeah, just like that night in Vegas," or something. But this is serious. It's pickle sandwich serious.
"Here, let me," David says, warily. He reaches for the jar but Cook tugs it away like a small child guarding his favorite toy.
"I can do it," Cook says stiffly.
"Clearly," David replies. Cook is pretty sure he hears sarcasm in his other half's voice. Sarcasm. Sarcasm is not going to help him get to the pickles. No, it is not.
"Just let me have it, will you?" David repeats, now sounding annoyed, at least by David Archuleta standards. This time David manages to get a hold of the jar and Cook scuffles with him a moment before finally letting go. He reasons with himself it's so that his kitchen floor really doesn't end up covered in sticky juice and beached pickles, and not because he's giving in to David.
"You're supposed to do this," David says as he turns the water back on and performs the same pickle baptismal ceremony as Cook had done before.
"It doesn't work," Cook grouchily replies. He folds his arms over his chest and watches as David carefully turns the jar over and over. "I already did that."
"You weren't running hot water," David answers, and Cook notices that he is indeed being careful to keep his hands out from under the now-steaming water. "It has to be hot."
A moment later David takes the previously discarded towel and gently runs it over the jar, sopping up most of the water. He drapes half the towel over the lid and grips it, turning it firmly until the quiet pop of the lid indicates his success. The jar gets passed over to Cook, who takes it almost unwillingly. Cook can see that David is straining against laughter.
"Anything else you need me to do before I leave?" David asks. "Change a light bulb? Hang a picture? Or can you manage while I'm away for the next few hours?"
Cook can feel his cheeks warm, and he knows that if it was Neal saying the same thing to him that he'd punch him in the mouth.
"I loosened it," Cook says. He is clutching the jar to his chest defensively.
"Of course you did," David replies. He flashes his David Archuleta Smile of Kindness and pats Cook on the arm. Cook considers actually punching David in the mouth now.
"I've got to go." David strides back across the kitchen, picking up his keys from the counter as he does so. "Enjoy your sandwich! I love you!" he adds before disappearing into the hall.
"Enjoy your sandwich," Cook grumbles as he turns to set the jar back on the counter. He glances at his half-made lunch and notes the lettuce wilting. It's okay, he can do without lettuce. He'll take that off as soon as he gets his pickles out. The glorious, worth-waiting-for pickles.
An acidic smell wafts from the jar's opening and Cook instantly feels a little bit better. Andrew once bet him to drink the juice from a pickle jar and Cook is proud to say that he came away forty bucks richer that night. Andrew still protests that because Cook vomited later that it didn't count, but the stipulation hadn't been established at the start, so Cook did not feel badly about taking his little brother's money. It was still legend in that little bar in Tulsa.
Ah, good times.
The memory distracts him from what he's doing, or perhaps the very ingestion of pickle juice has done permanent pickling damage to his brain, because Cook doesn't even think before he reaches into the half-empty jar, struggling to even grope one of the briny delicacies. He hums in frustration that he can't reach any of them and, against his better judgment (or any at all, really), he pushes harder, straining his fingers to grasp one blessed pickle. Damn his stubby, fat hands. Damn them to hell.
It's when he tilts the jar and one of the pickles graces his fingertips that he decides that what he must do is push harder. Yes, just an extra centimeter will suffice, surely. Surely.
And surely enough, his entire hand slips through the opening, leaving him knuckle-deep in essence of vinegar and dill.
The pickles skirt around his fingers, all of them now free for the taking, but he of course realizes at this point that he's in a whole hell of a lot of trouble. His first reaction is to pull frantically, but of course his hand is wider than the neck of the jar. He's never quite been able to figure out the physics of how one's hand can go into a jar but not come back out again.
"Sonofabitch," he says under his breath. "Son. Of. A. Bitch."
So now he's stuck. He's standing at the kitchen sink and he's stuck. He looks helplessly at his sandwich, and he can see even from several feet away that the cheese he sliced is drying out now. This whole day is really going downhill quickly, he thinks.
He tries leveraging his free hand against the jar, and pulling again. He sloshes the liquid up near his hand in hopes of it working like some sort of lubricant. Unfortunately, he just can't get the right angle on the situation. What he really needs is another pair of hands pulling in the completely opposite direction.
Another pair of hands.
"Archie!" Cook calls hopefully. He's fairly certain he hasn't heard the garage door open yet.
"I'm already gone!" is the reply he hears along with the front door opening. "You don't need the mayonnaise anyway!"
Cook makes a throaty growling sound and almost barks his response. "No, I need you for real!"
"I'm not falling for that again!" David says, his voice sounding further away. He's referring, of course, to the time Cook lured him back into the living room for a quick romp through the couch pillows, making him late for a meeting with his dad.
"Archie," Cook calls out, aggravated. "I'm stuck!"
There's dead silence for what seems like an eternity before David's quiet voice asks cautiously, "What are you doing in there?"
"Please, Archie!"
David's footsteps return to the kitchen, and when he pokes his head into the room, he's wearing an expression that's something like curiosity crossed with exasperation. Cook looks at him hopelessly, and indicates his predicament.
David blinks at him slowly.
"I'm stuck," Cook repeats uselessly.
"I know. I'm hoping if I wait long enough I'll wake up and this will just be some really bizarre dream."
This is frustrating to Cook. Because obviously David must realize how embarrassing this whole scenario is already. Cook is starving to death right in the middle of his own home, and shoot, if David doesn't help him he's not only going without lunch, but he'll never finish his song. He needs his strumming hand, damn it.
"All I did was try to get a pickle out!" Cook finally says, a little louder than he intended. "And like, I don't know! It just went in!"
"You do know," David says evenly, "that we have silverware, right? Your mom gave us some beautifully engraved ones for our anniversary. They say 'Cook' right on them."
Cook grinds his teeth and says nothing. He tries to give his partner his best Would You Just Help Me Already? look.
David finally relents, but not before looking at his watch and sighing heavily. Cook does not get what he's being so huffy about; it's not like they can take the photos without him. But Cook's song is waiting for him. His sandwich is withering away by the second. The pickle juice is starting to irritate that paper cut at the end of his index finger. This is an emergency.
"I can't believe you," David goes on as he takes Cook by the arm and drags him closer to the sink. "Monkeys are smarter than you! I could have married a monkey and this never would have happened."
David's flicked the water back on in the sink as he's said this, and he adjusts the knobs until the water is pleasantly warm. He pushes Cook's encapsulated hand under the faucet and then grabs the bottle of dish soap that is sitting out on the counter.
"If you hadn't fallen asleep when we were watching that National Geographic special last weekend, you'd know that an octopus can open a jar and get what's inside without managing to get itself stuck either," David informs Cook. He waves the dish soap in the air and a small bubble pops out of the end of it.
"Would you stop being didactic and help me? Oh my God, what are you doing?!"
David has now squirted at least half the bottle of dish soap over Cook's wrist, and the blue liquid slips coldly over his skin, dripping tinnily into the stainless steel basin. He watches as David puts the bottle down and then grips Cook's slimy wrist.
"Lubrication, Cook," David answers matter-of-factly. "You know all about that."
So now David's trying to be funny. Yeah, ha ha, it's so hilarious. This is no laughing matter, even though David is now wetting his hands and rubbing them along Cook's arm. Which is almost kind of sexy, if this were some other situation. But this is not the time. There are pickles at stake here.
"Archie, stop! You're gonna get the pickles all soapy!"
David abruptly stops rubbing Cook's arm and stares at him blankly.
"Okay, I'm done," he says flatly. He runs his hands under the faucet and then quickly dries them on the towel. "You can call your brother to come help you." He says it with such finality that Cook not only believes he's leaving, but that he'll never come back either.
Also, Cook would call an ambulance before he'd call Andrew. There is no way. There is just no. way.
"Archie, wait!" Cook begs. The jar clangs against the sink edge, echoing through the yellow-tiled kitchen.
"I have thirty minutes to get to my shoot," David says as he's leaving the kitchen. "Thirty minutes! You can't get downtown in thirty minutes, even at three in the morning." He's kind of mumbling the last part as he makes the corner into the hall.
"No, don't leave!" Cook calls desperately. But it's too late; the sound of the front door slamming loudly indicates that he's all alone. All alone except for the sudden familar jangle of metal tags and dog claws clacking across the kitchen floor. Dublin walks up to Cook and stares at him with a hopeful look.
"Hey Dubs," Cook sighs. "You know anything about pickle jars?"
In response, Dublin sits down and continues staring. A memory flashes into Cook's mind of the time he put an empty ice cream container on the floor to let Dublin lick the milky remnants out of it. Dublin had, of course, chased it around until his entire head was inside the container and Cook had laughed and laughed when it had clearly become stuck and Dublin couldn't get out. The poor dog had suffered until the merciful David Archuleta came to free him.
Somehow it didn't seem so funny anymore.
"I'm sorry, Dubs," Cook says. His paper cut is really smarting now and it reminds him that Dublin had dried ice cream in his fur for days after that. "I'm really sorry."
The dog gazes at him with his shiny black eyes another second before he barks sharply at his owner. Cook realizes Dublin is sitting right next to his food bowl. His empty food bowl.
"Damn it," Cook mutters. "I know, buddy, I'm hungry too, but like..."
He goes to wave his stuck hand about when it unexpectedly slips right through the neck of the jar with an audible thwump, completely free from its ten-minute prison. Cook stares at his hand as if it's completely new to him and even wiggles his fingers a little bit.
Dublin barks again.
Cook hastily fills the dog's bowls with food and water before grabbing his unfinished sandwich -- sans pickles -- and smashes the two halves together. He sinks onto the kitchen floor against the counter, settling just near Dublin's eating area.
"How did we ever survive without him?" Cook says as he gazes off across the kitchen. The sun is now cutting through the windows in stark scraps littered across the floor. The only response Cook gets is the clanking of Dublin's tags against his food bowl. Cook takes a cue from his pet and secures a huge bite out of the corner of his sandwich.
"Ugh!" he mumbles through the muffling bread. The cheese is too dry now and he forgot to take off the wilted lettuce. A tomato slips out from between the layers and lands smack in the middle of his shirt. He deliberately lets the back of his head hit the set of drawers behind him as some sort of peculiar punishment. Dumping the sandwich into Dublin's bowl, Cook wonders if there are any of Lupe's empanadas in the freezer still.
==========
[title] Cook In A Pickle
[author] kissontheneck [a.k.a. fieryrogue]
[pairing] Cookleta
[beta] sara84, who also titled it for me so, how awesome is that??
[rating] G
[word count] 3197
[summary] David Cook is one sandwich away from being completely emasculated. (And David Archuleta is going to kill him, seriously.)
[disclaimer] Surely, I have nothing to do with either of these fine young men, no matter how much I wish I did.
[warnings] Pickled foods. And... crack. I mean not real crack, but like... you know what I mean.
[author's notes] This is for sara84, who laughed at me when I was (sorta) in Cook's same situation.
COOK IN A PICKLE
At four a.m., David Cook wakes up with the most brilliant chord progression humming through his brain. So brilliant, in fact, that he can't go back to sleep for fear of forgetting it. So brilliant that he will even disturb David's sleep, despite the fact that the latter has his arms strewn across Cook's middle. This is just too good. This is like, top iTunes download good.
It's like "Elevator" good.
So against David's sleepy grumblings he slips out of bed and tries to quietly make his way down to his work room. He works until the sun cracks through the wooden slats of the vertical blinds, which warms his skin and inspires him even more. He's scribbling notes and words across several unorganized pages of blank sheet music when David brings him coffee and toast around nine. The coffee goes cold and Dublin steals the better part of the toast, and around eleven-thirty Cook realizes that he's really kind of hungry. Starving even.
He finds a good place to stop and is humming his newly-established melody as he jogs down the stairs, feeling rather light and excited that he's finally got some work in which to immerse himself. It's been a long time since he's felt this way, so this really calls for a really good lunch. Like a towering turkey sandwich with every possible thing in the fridge layered onto it. Visions of Dagwood comics pull him in a beeline to the kitchen.
So the work begins. Bread, mayo, mustard, turkey, pepperjack cheese. Check, check, check. Lettuce and tomato. Absolutely. He's balancing some of those weird sprouts David bought onto one half of the sandwich (because, what the hell, right?) when he suddenly feels like something is missing. Something really important. But he already has a smörgåsbord of ingredients so he really can't figure out what it could possibly --
And then he sees the jar.
Pickles.
How could he forget the pickles? Pickles are the best part. So with a stupid grin on his face he grabs the jar and bumps the fridge door closed with his hip.
The heavy jar thumps down onto the laminate counter and Cook is turning the lid before the liquid inside even has a chance to settle. Except that the lid is not turning. It just... it just won't. He narrows his brow at it as if he can shame it into cooperation. He tries again. It is not going to budge.
An inner monologue starts, as it always does in these sorts of situations. This jar has been opened before. This should not be a problem. Obviously pickle jar gnomes have snuck in during the night and tightened the lid beyond human strength limits.
He's been doing so well at the gym lately though, and David even made a comment the other day about how he's going to have to start special ordering shirts that have wider sleeves to accommodate his burgeoning biceps. (He's pretty sure David likes his shirts the way they are already, but he'll take a compliment when he can get one.)
So he flexes his hands a little like people do before they take on the weight of their bench press bar, including blowing into his cupped hands for a second. He can do this. It is just a jar of pickles for goodness sake.
And yet his fingers again slip around the rim of the jar. Apparently, he can not do this.
Cook realizes, of course, that he could have a sandwich without pickles. But honestly, the pickles are what make the sandwich. A turkey on rye just isn't the same without the vinegary bite and Vlasic crunch. And so he tries again. He turns on the water in the sink and runs the top of the jar under it. He's not exactly sure why, but he's seen his mom do this a thousand times, so he figures he might as well try something.
Unfortunately, that damn lid still isn't budging, and now the entire thing is wet. How the hell is this supposed to be helpful? He shuts off the water and reaches for a kitchen towel, nearly dropping the entire thing on the floor in the process.
"Hey, Cookie! Ooh, yummy looking sandwich!"
David's voice carries across the kitchen as brightly as the mid-day sun that is now searing right into Cook's eyes. He furrows his brow at the slippery jar and tries to wipe it off.
"I'd have lunch with you, but I have to get going," David continues as he makes his way across the room and leans briefly in towards Cook and kisses his cheek. "I'm supposed to be at my photo shoot in forty minutes. I should have left like twenty minutes ago! What are you doing?"
By now Cook is again struggling to grip the jar lid and pry it off. He's got the towel wrapped around the lid not only because the jar is still damp, but he thinks Andrew did this once with success. Something about friction or such. He clutches the jar against his chest and makes an involuntary groaning sound as he nearly strains his wrist turning against the lid.
"Have a good time," he manages to grunt. He doesn't even look up; he's too focused on the little pickle fragments bobbing in the waves of juice, taunting him.
Cook is aware, however, that David is looking at him like he's out of his mind. Typical. David doesn't even like pickles, which is basically sacrilegious. Cook lets the towel drop to the floor as he now takes to pressuring the jar into submission. Gripping the giant jar by its girth, he lightly taps the neck of it against the edge of the counter.
"Oh my gosh, don't do that!" David declares, gripping at Cook's arm. "You're going to break it and then there will be glass and sticky juice all over the place."
Any other time Cook might make some sort of inappropriate joke here. Like, "Yeah, just like that night in Vegas," or something. But this is serious. It's pickle sandwich serious.
"Here, let me," David says, warily. He reaches for the jar but Cook tugs it away like a small child guarding his favorite toy.
"I can do it," Cook says stiffly.
"Clearly," David replies. Cook is pretty sure he hears sarcasm in his other half's voice. Sarcasm. Sarcasm is not going to help him get to the pickles. No, it is not.
"Just let me have it, will you?" David repeats, now sounding annoyed, at least by David Archuleta standards. This time David manages to get a hold of the jar and Cook scuffles with him a moment before finally letting go. He reasons with himself it's so that his kitchen floor really doesn't end up covered in sticky juice and beached pickles, and not because he's giving in to David.
"You're supposed to do this," David says as he turns the water back on and performs the same pickle baptismal ceremony as Cook had done before.
"It doesn't work," Cook grouchily replies. He folds his arms over his chest and watches as David carefully turns the jar over and over. "I already did that."
"You weren't running hot water," David answers, and Cook notices that he is indeed being careful to keep his hands out from under the now-steaming water. "It has to be hot."
A moment later David takes the previously discarded towel and gently runs it over the jar, sopping up most of the water. He drapes half the towel over the lid and grips it, turning it firmly until the quiet pop of the lid indicates his success. The jar gets passed over to Cook, who takes it almost unwillingly. Cook can see that David is straining against laughter.
"Anything else you need me to do before I leave?" David asks. "Change a light bulb? Hang a picture? Or can you manage while I'm away for the next few hours?"
Cook can feel his cheeks warm, and he knows that if it was Neal saying the same thing to him that he'd punch him in the mouth.
"I loosened it," Cook says. He is clutching the jar to his chest defensively.
"Of course you did," David replies. He flashes his David Archuleta Smile of Kindness and pats Cook on the arm. Cook considers actually punching David in the mouth now.
"I've got to go." David strides back across the kitchen, picking up his keys from the counter as he does so. "Enjoy your sandwich! I love you!" he adds before disappearing into the hall.
"Enjoy your sandwich," Cook grumbles as he turns to set the jar back on the counter. He glances at his half-made lunch and notes the lettuce wilting. It's okay, he can do without lettuce. He'll take that off as soon as he gets his pickles out. The glorious, worth-waiting-for pickles.
An acidic smell wafts from the jar's opening and Cook instantly feels a little bit better. Andrew once bet him to drink the juice from a pickle jar and Cook is proud to say that he came away forty bucks richer that night. Andrew still protests that because Cook vomited later that it didn't count, but the stipulation hadn't been established at the start, so Cook did not feel badly about taking his little brother's money. It was still legend in that little bar in Tulsa.
Ah, good times.
The memory distracts him from what he's doing, or perhaps the very ingestion of pickle juice has done permanent pickling damage to his brain, because Cook doesn't even think before he reaches into the half-empty jar, struggling to even grope one of the briny delicacies. He hums in frustration that he can't reach any of them and, against his better judgment (or any at all, really), he pushes harder, straining his fingers to grasp one blessed pickle. Damn his stubby, fat hands. Damn them to hell.
It's when he tilts the jar and one of the pickles graces his fingertips that he decides that what he must do is push harder. Yes, just an extra centimeter will suffice, surely. Surely.
And surely enough, his entire hand slips through the opening, leaving him knuckle-deep in essence of vinegar and dill.
The pickles skirt around his fingers, all of them now free for the taking, but he of course realizes at this point that he's in a whole hell of a lot of trouble. His first reaction is to pull frantically, but of course his hand is wider than the neck of the jar. He's never quite been able to figure out the physics of how one's hand can go into a jar but not come back out again.
"Sonofabitch," he says under his breath. "Son. Of. A. Bitch."
So now he's stuck. He's standing at the kitchen sink and he's stuck. He looks helplessly at his sandwich, and he can see even from several feet away that the cheese he sliced is drying out now. This whole day is really going downhill quickly, he thinks.
He tries leveraging his free hand against the jar, and pulling again. He sloshes the liquid up near his hand in hopes of it working like some sort of lubricant. Unfortunately, he just can't get the right angle on the situation. What he really needs is another pair of hands pulling in the completely opposite direction.
Another pair of hands.
"Archie!" Cook calls hopefully. He's fairly certain he hasn't heard the garage door open yet.
"I'm already gone!" is the reply he hears along with the front door opening. "You don't need the mayonnaise anyway!"
Cook makes a throaty growling sound and almost barks his response. "No, I need you for real!"
"I'm not falling for that again!" David says, his voice sounding further away. He's referring, of course, to the time Cook lured him back into the living room for a quick romp through the couch pillows, making him late for a meeting with his dad.
"Archie," Cook calls out, aggravated. "I'm stuck!"
There's dead silence for what seems like an eternity before David's quiet voice asks cautiously, "What are you doing in there?"
"Please, Archie!"
David's footsteps return to the kitchen, and when he pokes his head into the room, he's wearing an expression that's something like curiosity crossed with exasperation. Cook looks at him hopelessly, and indicates his predicament.
David blinks at him slowly.
"I'm stuck," Cook repeats uselessly.
"I know. I'm hoping if I wait long enough I'll wake up and this will just be some really bizarre dream."
This is frustrating to Cook. Because obviously David must realize how embarrassing this whole scenario is already. Cook is starving to death right in the middle of his own home, and shoot, if David doesn't help him he's not only going without lunch, but he'll never finish his song. He needs his strumming hand, damn it.
"All I did was try to get a pickle out!" Cook finally says, a little louder than he intended. "And like, I don't know! It just went in!"
"You do know," David says evenly, "that we have silverware, right? Your mom gave us some beautifully engraved ones for our anniversary. They say 'Cook' right on them."
Cook grinds his teeth and says nothing. He tries to give his partner his best Would You Just Help Me Already? look.
David finally relents, but not before looking at his watch and sighing heavily. Cook does not get what he's being so huffy about; it's not like they can take the photos without him. But Cook's song is waiting for him. His sandwich is withering away by the second. The pickle juice is starting to irritate that paper cut at the end of his index finger. This is an emergency.
"I can't believe you," David goes on as he takes Cook by the arm and drags him closer to the sink. "Monkeys are smarter than you! I could have married a monkey and this never would have happened."
David's flicked the water back on in the sink as he's said this, and he adjusts the knobs until the water is pleasantly warm. He pushes Cook's encapsulated hand under the faucet and then grabs the bottle of dish soap that is sitting out on the counter.
"If you hadn't fallen asleep when we were watching that National Geographic special last weekend, you'd know that an octopus can open a jar and get what's inside without managing to get itself stuck either," David informs Cook. He waves the dish soap in the air and a small bubble pops out of the end of it.
"Would you stop being didactic and help me? Oh my God, what are you doing?!"
David has now squirted at least half the bottle of dish soap over Cook's wrist, and the blue liquid slips coldly over his skin, dripping tinnily into the stainless steel basin. He watches as David puts the bottle down and then grips Cook's slimy wrist.
"Lubrication, Cook," David answers matter-of-factly. "You know all about that."
So now David's trying to be funny. Yeah, ha ha, it's so hilarious. This is no laughing matter, even though David is now wetting his hands and rubbing them along Cook's arm. Which is almost kind of sexy, if this were some other situation. But this is not the time. There are pickles at stake here.
"Archie, stop! You're gonna get the pickles all soapy!"
David abruptly stops rubbing Cook's arm and stares at him blankly.
"Okay, I'm done," he says flatly. He runs his hands under the faucet and then quickly dries them on the towel. "You can call your brother to come help you." He says it with such finality that Cook not only believes he's leaving, but that he'll never come back either.
Also, Cook would call an ambulance before he'd call Andrew. There is no way. There is just no. way.
"Archie, wait!" Cook begs. The jar clangs against the sink edge, echoing through the yellow-tiled kitchen.
"I have thirty minutes to get to my shoot," David says as he's leaving the kitchen. "Thirty minutes! You can't get downtown in thirty minutes, even at three in the morning." He's kind of mumbling the last part as he makes the corner into the hall.
"No, don't leave!" Cook calls desperately. But it's too late; the sound of the front door slamming loudly indicates that he's all alone. All alone except for the sudden familar jangle of metal tags and dog claws clacking across the kitchen floor. Dublin walks up to Cook and stares at him with a hopeful look.
"Hey Dubs," Cook sighs. "You know anything about pickle jars?"
In response, Dublin sits down and continues staring. A memory flashes into Cook's mind of the time he put an empty ice cream container on the floor to let Dublin lick the milky remnants out of it. Dublin had, of course, chased it around until his entire head was inside the container and Cook had laughed and laughed when it had clearly become stuck and Dublin couldn't get out. The poor dog had suffered until the merciful David Archuleta came to free him.
Somehow it didn't seem so funny anymore.
"I'm sorry, Dubs," Cook says. His paper cut is really smarting now and it reminds him that Dublin had dried ice cream in his fur for days after that. "I'm really sorry."
The dog gazes at him with his shiny black eyes another second before he barks sharply at his owner. Cook realizes Dublin is sitting right next to his food bowl. His empty food bowl.
"Damn it," Cook mutters. "I know, buddy, I'm hungry too, but like..."
He goes to wave his stuck hand about when it unexpectedly slips right through the neck of the jar with an audible thwump, completely free from its ten-minute prison. Cook stares at his hand as if it's completely new to him and even wiggles his fingers a little bit.
Dublin barks again.
Cook hastily fills the dog's bowls with food and water before grabbing his unfinished sandwich -- sans pickles -- and smashes the two halves together. He sinks onto the kitchen floor against the counter, settling just near Dublin's eating area.
"How did we ever survive without him?" Cook says as he gazes off across the kitchen. The sun is now cutting through the windows in stark scraps littered across the floor. The only response Cook gets is the clanking of Dublin's tags against his food bowl. Cook takes a cue from his pet and secures a huge bite out of the corner of his sandwich.
"Ugh!" he mumbles through the muffling bread. The cheese is too dry now and he forgot to take off the wilted lettuce. A tomato slips out from between the layers and lands smack in the middle of his shirt. He deliberately lets the back of his head hit the set of drawers behind him as some sort of peculiar punishment. Dumping the sandwich into Dublin's bowl, Cook wonders if there are any of Lupe's empanadas in the freezer still.
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