(no subject)
"And LO, on this day ye shall be given bacon, and you shall see that it is good!"
Is there honestly anything better in this world than bacon, candy of meats? Wallace does his fair share (Okay, more than his fair share) of cooking. Not even when he was in that shithole one room excuse for an apartment with Scott did he skimp on what he ate. There is nothing, though, nothing at all that compares to the blessed sweet taste of market bacon fresh from the pan.
Well, except sex. Sex is better than bacon, but it's a close run thing.
His proclamation is loud enough to echo through the whole apartment and announce to Scott (in the bathroom) that breakfast-as-dinner is ready (Unlike sex, there is never a bad time for bacon). Wallace had been home from work maybe two minutes before he'd shucked off his shoes and pants, and an hour later when he turns from the stove, pan in one hand and spatula in the other, he looks exactly the same: Dressed from the waist up and nothing but boxers below. It's his place, he can wear what he likes-
-only it isn't actually his place any longer. Spatula still lifted mightily in his hand, he stills and affords the very large, very foreign kitchen a slow blink.
You would think that when your boyfriend is psychic you could get a little warning on these things.
Is there honestly anything better in this world than bacon, candy of meats? Wallace does his fair share (Okay, more than his fair share) of cooking. Not even when he was in that shithole one room excuse for an apartment with Scott did he skimp on what he ate. There is nothing, though, nothing at all that compares to the blessed sweet taste of market bacon fresh from the pan.
Well, except sex. Sex is better than bacon, but it's a close run thing.
His proclamation is loud enough to echo through the whole apartment and announce to Scott (in the bathroom) that breakfast-as-dinner is ready (Unlike sex, there is never a bad time for bacon). Wallace had been home from work maybe two minutes before he'd shucked off his shoes and pants, and an hour later when he turns from the stove, pan in one hand and spatula in the other, he looks exactly the same: Dressed from the waist up and nothing but boxers below. It's his place, he can wear what he likes-
-only it isn't actually his place any longer. Spatula still lifted mightily in his hand, he stills and affords the very large, very foreign kitchen a slow blink.
You would think that when your boyfriend is psychic you could get a little warning on these things.