71. Pancakes
71. Pancakes
~*Buson and Bashou have left the team after a horrifying incident, the details of which may be coming in another fic. This, as Bashou says, is the first day of their new lives.*~
It is the first morning of our new lives, and it begins with a simple yet essential item.
If this were a cartoon, there would have been a hand fashioned of delicious breakfast aroma poking me in the shoulder, only to be dissipated by my inhalations.
Much as I want not to, I roll over, toward the light.
A plate clatters somewhere too close to me, and I jerk, startled, then open my eyes.
Buson's face is inches from mine.
I run my hand through my silver hair, then fall back to the bed. "Can you please not give me more than one heart attack a day?"
Buson laughs and brings around the plate that startled me at first.
It is a feast -- pancakes, strawberries that looked and smelled fresh, scrambled eggs, silverware, and a small cup of syrup.
"No bacon?" I cannot help but smile. Already Buson has given me light on an otherwise dark and looming day.
Today, everything will change.
"Clogs your arteries," he says simply. "Toast is comin'."
The toaster chooses that moment to release its prize.
"Toast has come," I correct him, still held prisoner by the last vestiges of sleep.
He smiles and goes to get it; I sit up against the headboard.
Pancakes, I think randomly.
I take a bite, fleetingly wondering if there is something more to this fare than what it seems.
Who would have thought Buson was such a good cook?
~*Buson and Bashou have left the team after a horrifying incident, the details of which may be coming in another fic. This, as Bashou says, is the first day of their new lives.*~
It is the first morning of our new lives, and it begins with a simple yet essential item.
If this were a cartoon, there would have been a hand fashioned of delicious breakfast aroma poking me in the shoulder, only to be dissipated by my inhalations.
Much as I want not to, I roll over, toward the light.
A plate clatters somewhere too close to me, and I jerk, startled, then open my eyes.
Buson's face is inches from mine.
I run my hand through my silver hair, then fall back to the bed. "Can you please not give me more than one heart attack a day?"
Buson laughs and brings around the plate that startled me at first.
It is a feast -- pancakes, strawberries that looked and smelled fresh, scrambled eggs, silverware, and a small cup of syrup.
"No bacon?" I cannot help but smile. Already Buson has given me light on an otherwise dark and looming day.
Today, everything will change.
"Clogs your arteries," he says simply. "Toast is comin'."
The toaster chooses that moment to release its prize.
"Toast has come," I correct him, still held prisoner by the last vestiges of sleep.
He smiles and goes to get it; I sit up against the headboard.
Pancakes, I think randomly.
I take a bite, fleetingly wondering if there is something more to this fare than what it seems.
Who would have thought Buson was such a good cook?