Jam, or, Toast Tomorrow and Toast Yesterday by miasnape [hourglass challenge]
Author: miasnape
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dan/Casey
Length: 1140 approx.
A/N: Title bastardized from Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll.
Warnings: Abuse of the word 'toast'.
Jam, or, Toast Tomorrow and Toast Yesterday
Danny glanced up when Casey shuffled into the kitchen, and then quickly refocused on the task of buttering the pile of toast in front of him. The tower of toast was a veritable Babel of lightly-browned bread - entirely too much for any two men - but he'd woken up with Casey pressed close to his side, skin slightly sweaty, hair stuck to Danny's bare chest in mad whorls. He'd woken up and looked down at where his arm was wrapped around Casey's ribcage, fingers curling into the rough hair near Casey's left nipple, and he'd experienced a dissonance so strong that for five solid minutes he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare at their half-covered bodies twisted together on his bed and try to connect what he was seeing with anything - anything - that he'd previously known to be true.
The sand in the egg timer on the fridge trickled slowly into the lower bulb of the hourglass and Danny turned his head towards it, watching Casey's movements from the side of his eyes. A chair leg scraped against the floor when Casey pulled it out, wincing at the harsh sound. He was wearing Danny's bathrobe, with its rolled up sleeves and worn-in softness. He'd worn it before now; it wasn't anything new. Except that it was, just like he'd made Casey breakfast before - eggs and toast, coffee and orange juice, just like this morning - but this morning it was different. This morning he had about ten slices of toast in front of him, because it was easier to focus on the scratch of the butter knife on toast than on memories of last night and thoughts about what it meant for today, and tomorrow, and all of the tomorrows after that.
This morning was a post-sex breakfast. Post-incredibly-good-dirty-sweaty-hot-sex-with-your-best-friend breakfast, and Danny had no idea how that was supposed to go; how he was supposed to act. So... toast. And eggs - boiled, because they pretty much took care of themselves, and he didn't trust himself with anything trickier.
Darting a quick look at Casey, Danny noticed that his hair was still sticking up crazily on the right side of his head, and he had to fight down an urge to giggle. The coffee maker bubbled in the background, and Casey yawned softly over at the table, and Danny felt just a little less awkward than he had a minute ago, because Casey was there, sitting a few feet away, yawning like there was nothing special, nothing different. Even though Danny knew Casey enough to know that internally Casey was just as twitchy and freaked out and awkward-feeling as Danny was himself, the superficial image of sleepy, every-day Casey McCall was enough to stop a few of his nerves from jangling quite so much.
The last few grains of sand fell through the neck of the timer and landed silently on the others, and Danny darted towards the stove to drain the eggs, and dry them, and to do all the egg-related things he could to delay whatever was going to happen next. Still, there was only so much you could do with an egg, and eventually Danny had to make his food-laden way to the table and Casey, attention focused on making sure the drinks didn't spill and the food didn't go splat.
"That's a lot of toast," Casey said, and Danny looked up from his coffee mug. Casey was looking at the mountain of toast with a slightly incredulous expression, and Danny smiled a wry smile.
"Yeah, well, I might have been a little distracted," he offered. "What with, well... everything."
Casey looked up at him and grinned, and it was uncomfortable and dorky and completely beautiful, and Danny grinned back.
"Everything," Casey repeated, and it was loaded with meaning that one word: with flashes of skin on skin; with careful movements and helpless groans; with hoarse voices begging and hushing and laughing and babbling; with the way they had lain after, pressing kisses to flushed skin and giving in to giddy smiles and awful jokes and muttered endearments and, eventually, well-earned sleep.
Danny cut a slice of toast in two and offered half to Casey, their fingers touching in a brush of crumbs and a slide of melted butter.
"Maybe tomorrow we should just have cereal," Casey said, poking at the pile of toast between them, and Danny bit off a hunk of bread and chewed happily, a pool of warmth rising in his stomach that had nothing to do with freshly-made coffee and everything to do with the man across from him, and the fact that he got to have this again tomorrow. And maybe for a lot of the tomorrows after that.
That was a lot of toast.
Danny glanced up as Casey shuffled into the kitchen, and snorted at this morning's catastrophe of bed-head. The entire right side of Casey's face was pink and marked with pillow lines, and above it hair stuck out at every angle from straight up to flattened against his skull.
"Pancakes?" Casey asked, coming up beside him and poking at the wooden spoon stuck in the pale, gloopy batter mix. Danny smacked at the curious fingers until they dropped, and then smiled at the browning pancake in front of him when they fell to his hips and slid up past his waistband, resting on the bare skin of his sides under his t-shirt. Casey's nose poked at the back of his head, and his lips pressed gently against the nape of his neck.
Danny flipped the pancake over to check the colour, and then slid it onto a plate at his side. He went to pour more batter into the pan, but Casey pulled at him until they were face to face in the middle of their small kitchen, pressed together from their stomachs to their feet.
"Good morning," Casey murmured, mouthing a path from Danny's ear to his lips, and then lingering for soft, shallow kisses.
"The pancakes will get all cold," Danny warned, doing his best to calm the wild, silvery tangle of Casey's morning hair with his fingers while Casey slid his hands back up under Danny's t-shirt, and then down again, palms curving under Danny's boxers to fit the shape of his ass.
Casey squeezed gently and Danny groaned into Casey's mouth, licking the roof of Casey's mouth greedily and changing his grip on Casey's hair from mellow to possessive.
"So we'll have toast," Casey said, head tilting to the side and biting at Danny's throat, stubble scratching and tongue soothing, hands pulling their hips tightly together and grinding hot and hard against him. Danny ground back and grinned into Casey's forehead, tongue tracing over a persistent pillow wrinkle and down to the deeper ones at Casey's temple, the ones that marked out years of mornings which started with pancakes and waffles and bagels and kisses and the two of them, together.
"Toast it is."
The end.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dan/Casey
Length: 1140 approx.
A/N: Title bastardized from Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll.
Warnings: Abuse of the word 'toast'.
Jam, or, Toast Tomorrow and Toast Yesterday
Danny glanced up when Casey shuffled into the kitchen, and then quickly refocused on the task of buttering the pile of toast in front of him. The tower of toast was a veritable Babel of lightly-browned bread - entirely too much for any two men - but he'd woken up with Casey pressed close to his side, skin slightly sweaty, hair stuck to Danny's bare chest in mad whorls. He'd woken up and looked down at where his arm was wrapped around Casey's ribcage, fingers curling into the rough hair near Casey's left nipple, and he'd experienced a dissonance so strong that for five solid minutes he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare at their half-covered bodies twisted together on his bed and try to connect what he was seeing with anything - anything - that he'd previously known to be true.
The sand in the egg timer on the fridge trickled slowly into the lower bulb of the hourglass and Danny turned his head towards it, watching Casey's movements from the side of his eyes. A chair leg scraped against the floor when Casey pulled it out, wincing at the harsh sound. He was wearing Danny's bathrobe, with its rolled up sleeves and worn-in softness. He'd worn it before now; it wasn't anything new. Except that it was, just like he'd made Casey breakfast before - eggs and toast, coffee and orange juice, just like this morning - but this morning it was different. This morning he had about ten slices of toast in front of him, because it was easier to focus on the scratch of the butter knife on toast than on memories of last night and thoughts about what it meant for today, and tomorrow, and all of the tomorrows after that.
This morning was a post-sex breakfast. Post-incredibly-good-dirty-sweaty-hot-sex-with-your-best-friend breakfast, and Danny had no idea how that was supposed to go; how he was supposed to act. So... toast. And eggs - boiled, because they pretty much took care of themselves, and he didn't trust himself with anything trickier.
Darting a quick look at Casey, Danny noticed that his hair was still sticking up crazily on the right side of his head, and he had to fight down an urge to giggle. The coffee maker bubbled in the background, and Casey yawned softly over at the table, and Danny felt just a little less awkward than he had a minute ago, because Casey was there, sitting a few feet away, yawning like there was nothing special, nothing different. Even though Danny knew Casey enough to know that internally Casey was just as twitchy and freaked out and awkward-feeling as Danny was himself, the superficial image of sleepy, every-day Casey McCall was enough to stop a few of his nerves from jangling quite so much.
The last few grains of sand fell through the neck of the timer and landed silently on the others, and Danny darted towards the stove to drain the eggs, and dry them, and to do all the egg-related things he could to delay whatever was going to happen next. Still, there was only so much you could do with an egg, and eventually Danny had to make his food-laden way to the table and Casey, attention focused on making sure the drinks didn't spill and the food didn't go splat.
"That's a lot of toast," Casey said, and Danny looked up from his coffee mug. Casey was looking at the mountain of toast with a slightly incredulous expression, and Danny smiled a wry smile.
"Yeah, well, I might have been a little distracted," he offered. "What with, well... everything."
Casey looked up at him and grinned, and it was uncomfortable and dorky and completely beautiful, and Danny grinned back.
"Everything," Casey repeated, and it was loaded with meaning that one word: with flashes of skin on skin; with careful movements and helpless groans; with hoarse voices begging and hushing and laughing and babbling; with the way they had lain after, pressing kisses to flushed skin and giving in to giddy smiles and awful jokes and muttered endearments and, eventually, well-earned sleep.
Danny cut a slice of toast in two and offered half to Casey, their fingers touching in a brush of crumbs and a slide of melted butter.
"Maybe tomorrow we should just have cereal," Casey said, poking at the pile of toast between them, and Danny bit off a hunk of bread and chewed happily, a pool of warmth rising in his stomach that had nothing to do with freshly-made coffee and everything to do with the man across from him, and the fact that he got to have this again tomorrow. And maybe for a lot of the tomorrows after that.
That was a lot of toast.
Danny glanced up as Casey shuffled into the kitchen, and snorted at this morning's catastrophe of bed-head. The entire right side of Casey's face was pink and marked with pillow lines, and above it hair stuck out at every angle from straight up to flattened against his skull.
"Pancakes?" Casey asked, coming up beside him and poking at the wooden spoon stuck in the pale, gloopy batter mix. Danny smacked at the curious fingers until they dropped, and then smiled at the browning pancake in front of him when they fell to his hips and slid up past his waistband, resting on the bare skin of his sides under his t-shirt. Casey's nose poked at the back of his head, and his lips pressed gently against the nape of his neck.
Danny flipped the pancake over to check the colour, and then slid it onto a plate at his side. He went to pour more batter into the pan, but Casey pulled at him until they were face to face in the middle of their small kitchen, pressed together from their stomachs to their feet.
"Good morning," Casey murmured, mouthing a path from Danny's ear to his lips, and then lingering for soft, shallow kisses.
"The pancakes will get all cold," Danny warned, doing his best to calm the wild, silvery tangle of Casey's morning hair with his fingers while Casey slid his hands back up under Danny's t-shirt, and then down again, palms curving under Danny's boxers to fit the shape of his ass.
Casey squeezed gently and Danny groaned into Casey's mouth, licking the roof of Casey's mouth greedily and changing his grip on Casey's hair from mellow to possessive.
"So we'll have toast," Casey said, head tilting to the side and biting at Danny's throat, stubble scratching and tongue soothing, hands pulling their hips tightly together and grinding hot and hard against him. Danny ground back and grinned into Casey's forehead, tongue tracing over a persistent pillow wrinkle and down to the deeper ones at Casey's temple, the ones that marked out years of mornings which started with pancakes and waffles and bagels and kisses and the two of them, together.
"Toast it is."
The end.