(Fic) KKBB: The Breadwinner
Dear LiveJournal: Please stop fucking around with my formatting when I try to copy-paste or put in LJ cuts. Thanks! (If anyone has a solution for this douchebaggery, I would appreciate any pointers. New to LJ and all that.) FUCK THAT IS REALLY PISSING ME OFF.
Title: The Breadwinner
Fandom: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Characters: Harry Lockhart, Perry Van Shrike
Table: “If You Were” Challenge from
Prompt: 10) If I was hungry you would feed me
Words: 3015
Rating PG-13, for language, criminal activity, and implied homosexuality
Disclaimer: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and all characters therein belong to Shane Black & co.
Summary: Harry never has to worry about where his next meal is coming from anymore, and that’s almost a bigger gift than Perry’s friendship itself.
---
New York is absolutely frigid this time of year, especially at this time of night. You’d think, having grown up in Indiana, that I’d be used to the cold, but noooo. Give me a sweltering heat wave anytime. Now would be nice, actually. Because like I said, it’s really fucking cold. It doesn’t help that it’s windy as hell and about to start raining - or even snowing - anytime now.
You might be wondering why I would be outside in the middle of the night in the middle of a storm when it’s almost below twenty degrees outside. I’m wondering that myself, actually. Normally I wouldn’t be out right now unless I was on a job… but I’m so fucking starving.
I get to the little 24 hour store on the corner and hurry inside. It’s dry and the air is still, and I can hear the heater running and pause a moment just to enjoy it - the heat in my apartment hasn’t been working right for weeks, so the only times I’ve felt really warm is when I’m inside a store or something.
At the jingle of the bell on the door, the guy behind the counter looks up. I give him a friendly smile. He narrows his eyes before offering a cold one in return, making me falter only a little. Unfriendly asshole. But I’m pretty much used to people thinking I’m little more than scum, and it doesn’t really bother me so much anymore, so I let it go. He watches me carefully as I move around the shop, trying to figure out how much I can buy with the ten in my pocket, because between the rent and a lack of good hauls lately, it’s all I have for now.
I can feel my heart sinking when I realize how little that amount really is.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me. It’s a little unnerving, especially when I look up and catch his eye, and he just gazes intently back at me. My smile this time is a little strained, a little uncomfortable. I wish he wouldn’t stare at me like that.
I come up to the register with a loaf of bread and two bags of beef jerky. I give the cigarettes behind the counter a longing glance - because, dammit, I could really use a smoke - while he rings up the total. I can only just barely manage to cover the tax, so there‘s no way I can get my nicotine fix until I can get some more cash.
I give Mr. Creepy Staring Shopguy a thank you that‘s as cheery and polite as I can manage, to which he grunts and gives me a sarcastic smile that looks more like a sneer as he shakes out his newspaper. I pull my coat a little closer and head for the door. The air pressure from the wind pushes it back, and I grit my teeth against the freezing air that hits me. I can feel the shopkeeper’s eyes follow me until I pass out of the view from the window. My food is in a paper bag that I hug close to my chest, trying to keep it as dry as possible, and I have two cents leftover in my pocket.
Back at my tiny apartment, I put the bread and jerky both in the fridge - because cold food sucks, but moldy food is worse - and then grin as I start pulling candy bars out of my sleeves. A box of Poptarts and a narrow jar of trail mix are pulled out of the front of my coat. These, and the candy, bread, and jerky, join the lone orange and half-gone bottle of apple juice on the shelf.
I eye my meager stockpile doubtfully and settle on a jerky and M&M sandwich for dinner. I should be good for another week with this.
We’re in a restaurant, a proper one with individual menus and cloth napkins and real dishes and silverware. “We” includes me and Perry and Harmony, and the waiters have cleared away a chair so that Perry’s wheelchair can fit at the table. Unfortunately, the table and chairs are too high, so it still comes up nearly to Perry’s chest. He grimaces but says nothing. I think he believes it’s worth it just to be out of the hospital and away from the horrible health food they shoved down our throats during our stay. I know I’m glad to have finally left.
I can feel both of them staring at me while I wolf down my food. I’m not sloppy or anything, but I still finish every crumb before either of them is half done, and then sit there fidgeting and feeling awkward for the rest of the meal. I laugh and try to brush it off, and they both smile a bit uncertainly, but I still catch them giving me sidelong looks when they think I’m can’t see - this one says ‘is Harry just being a weirdo again?’ and the other says ‘there must be something wrong.’ Both of my two best friends are shooting me both those looks. Dammit. I mean, I know I have trouble keeping my emotions off my face at times, but really, this isn’t something they need to worry about. Hell, this isn’t something that I need to worry about.
Not anymore.
Inwardly, I’m kicking myself for it, berating myself. No one’s going to take it away, Harry. It’s not like this is another stolen meal you might catch trouble for, Harry. You have an income now, Harry, you don’t need to worry about this being the last full meal you’ll have for the week.
It doesn’t work. I still feel that happy sort of feeling that comes with a full stomach, laced with the slightest flicker of dread that I won’t see as much food as this for a while.
Harmony asks if I’m still hungry and it takes every ounce of willpower to say no. And I’m not, not really. I’m kinda used to not having much food, so I don’t really want anything else right now. Except I do, because I’m kinda fucked up, if you haven’t noticed, and if I didn’t have my pride, I’d probably have asked for a box and scraped both their plates clean, just to ensure that I’d have some food for later. It’s just instinct, or something, for me to be this careful about food, but I know it’s not normal, and I know I can stop worrying about it, but I just can’t.
Perry says nothing except that their garlic bread is too salty for his tastes as he puts his roll on my emptied plate. I manage to mutter a mortified thank you and chew it slowly, avoiding my best friends’ eyes.
Worse still is the moment when it’s time to pay the bill. Harmony tries to pay for me, but Perry is having none of it and insists on paying for all three of us. He waves his ATM card at us as an excuse, saying it makes more sense than each of us trying to pay for our separate meal when there’s only one tab. Which is very efficient of him, just the sort of thing you’d expect from Perry. But he also refuses to accept reimbursement from Harmony.
My face burns and I shift uncomfortably, because Perry already paid for my recent medical bills. And not only were they extensive (‘cause, yanno…bullet wounds, electrocution, spontaneous finger amputation-and-digestion, and general beatings kind of lead to an extensive bill) but I don’t even have any medical insurance to help cover the cost either. And if that wasn’t already enough, he’s also offered me both a job with him and a place to stay. I mean, what the hell? I’m just the idiot from New York who got him shot within four days of meeting him. He really has no business trying to pay any of this, let alone for my food too, and let’s also not forget Harmony’s meal.
But even though I know all of this, even though I could technically pay for this particular meal myself, the selfish, self-preservation-y part of me is locked in place, making me reluctant to even offer. Not that Perry would even accept it anyways, I know. He’d just shove it back across the table at me like he did for Harmony. But there’s still that little voice whispering that if I offered him the eight dollars, I wouldn’t see them again, so I hold my tongue for once.
It’s quiet in the car, the radio off for once because I can see the migraine building in the lines on Perry’s forehead. It’s late, past midnight, and we’ve been out on a surveillance for the past five hours. I’m exhausted, Perry is exhausted, and we both just want to go home.
I try to ignore the growling in my stomach and concentrate on everything I’m going to pile together into a sandwich when we get home. I want turkey, chicken, and ham, and tomatoes, and olives, American cheese and some of that fancy havarti stuff Perry likes, and put it all between wheat bread slathered with ranch dressing. God, I’m hungry…you know what, I actually don’t care what’s on it as long as it’s FOOD… and this so isn’t helping.
I’m so distracted I hardly notice Perry pulling into a shopping center parking lot until I hear the static on the intercom. “Hi, welcome to Taco Bell! What can I get you?”
I shift a little and stare at Perry. “What are you doing, Perry? You hate Taco Bell.”
“Well I figured you were hungry. Or was your stomach just having a lover’s quarrel with your intestines?”
I blink and grin, and quickly tell him what I want before he changes his mind.
Five minutes later, and Perry sipping a diet coke through a straw while I chow down on a grilled stuft burrito. I moan with appreciation and Perry makes a face.
“Thank you, Perry,” I say before he can complain about the noise. If my voice sounds too happy over a burrito, I tell myself it’s because it’s a damned good burrito. It's not because I am no longer damned hungry. It’s certainly not because Perry is being nice to me. Which he isn’t. Not really, anyways. My stomach growls were probably just making his headache worse.
“Just don’t get beans on the seat,” is all he says.
I readjust the damp washcloth on my forehead for what feels like the hundredth time and let out a miserable sigh that wastes no time turning into a rough cough. It feels like my throat is tearing itself up, and by the time I regain control over myself, Perry has appeared in the living room door, eyeing me with concern. Oh boy, I must look really bad to be getting that look from him now.
He stands there and watches me sniffle. I sit here and watch the television screen. After a minute, he moves into the room, closer to where I’ve curled up on the couch. “Harry, are you hungry? You should eat some dinner. You haven’t eaten all day.”
I groan. I am hungry. But I haven’t eaten all day because I was certain if I tried, I’d just throw it back up, and Perry would kill me if I stained his perfect white carpets. I shake my head and manage to rasp out a ‘no, thank you,’ ignoring both the look on his face and the churning in my stomach.
He doesn’t move, and I steal a glance at him. Fuck, why is he still giving me that look, like I‘m a puppy he wants to take home and fatten up? Perry doesn’t even like puppies, and he’s certainly not the type to take one home to feed. Anyways, I go back to staring fixedly at the TV as soon as our eyes meet, and he doesn‘t say anything. I pointedly ignore his presence until the commercials finally come on, at which point I steal another glance…
But he’s gone from the room. Fuck me, I’ve been pointedly ignoring an empty room. You’d think, since I’m sick, Perry would at least have the decency to stay in one spot and let me ignore him but nooooo, he has to be all, sneaky-ninja-Perry and disappear in the middle of me ignoring him. Fuck. Now I’m sick, hungry, and embarrassed.
I sit up, a bit tired, but not too weak, and hit the mute button on the clicker. Without the blaring noise from the soap commercial (why are the commercials always like, ten times as loud as the program? It’s ridiculous and annoying) I can hear Perry in the kitchen, pans clattering as he starts to cook.
I stay on the couch for couple minutes, watching the commercials on mute and listening to Perry making something. The show comes back on, but I don’t un-mute it yet. Instead, as I hear something start to sizzle in a pan, I get up from the couch, pulling a blanket around my shoulders, and pad into the next room.
Perry’s standing at the stove, frying something up. There’s a bowl on the counter and a collection of various ingredients that I look over as I sit down at the table. It’s a really strange assortment of items to have out for one dish. I try to imagine what they might make together, but my head aches too badly to figure it out. I give up and rest my head on my arms with another pitiful groan that makes my manhood wince, but I feel too shitty to actually be all embarrassed over it.
I’m still watching Perry, and he seems to notice. He glances over his shoulder and frowns. “Stay over there. I don’t want your cold germs in my dinner,” he says.
I try to snort and fail through the congestion, instead triggering another coughing fit. “Oh thanks,” I finally manage to gasp out. “Your concern for my well-being is so touching.”
“Shut up,” he says, but there’s no heat in the words. I turn my head to press my eyes into my arm, shutting out the impossibly bright kitchen lights.
Ten minutes later a plate is thunked down in front of my face, startling me. I lift my head a little to see a short, steaming stack of pancakes in front of me, a little butter and syrup (less than usual) dripping down the sides. My whole mouth waters.
Perry sits down across from me. He has eggs and bacon with his pancakes, but the very sight of them makes my stomach clench and I have to look away. For a minute, I’m very glad that I can’t smell anything.
Perry frowns at me again. “Eat that. I know you don’t feel good, but you need to have something. It’ll probably help settle your stomach just to have something in it anyways.” He takes a bite of eggs.
I stare at him dolefully, then look down at the pancakes. Fuck, they look great. My stomach growls and Perry smirks. I give him a glare as I pick up my fork, but it’s too soft for him to feel offended, just like his snarking earlier was too soft to offend me.
The pancakes are… really good, soft and sweet and hot. Perry makes the best pancakes I’ve ever had anywhere. Normally I’d have more syrup than is on these, but if I had any more sugar on this, I probably really would throw up. Didn’t really matter, they were still perfect just like this. Perry’s pancakes (and wouldn’t that make a great name for a breakfast diner) would even be great cold with nothing on them.
Actually, I’ve had them cold and they were almost even better. People underestimate the value of cold and reheated foods sometimes. I guess I’m more used to it because back in New York, that was sometimes all I had, but even now that I’m living with Perry and don’t have to have food that’s cold or not quite fresh, every now and then I’ll have a hankering for some of the foods that I’d found tasted as good or better when you’re just slumming the kitchen….goddammit, I’m getting sidetracked again!
Of course, Perry was right; within five bites of pancake-y goodness, the weight in my stomach has helped calm it down, and I no longer feeling like I’m going to make a mess on the floor. I speed up and start taking bigger bites, and Perry actually has to tell me to slow down a little, but he’s smirking as he says it and the lines on his forehead have smoothed out a little, and I realize I’ve been worrying him. I almost feel guilty, but then I remember, I’m sick! Of course he should be worrying about me!
By the time I’ve finished I can feel myself starting to doze off right there at the table. Perry sweeps my plate out from under me before I get a face full of syrup, taking it to the sink to rinse it. “Go to bed, idiot.” He says without looking up.
I sleepily murmur an agreement and get up, yawning. “Thanks, Per,” I slur on my way out, “was really good…”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve poured myself into bed and am drifting into some much-needed rest when I hear the door crack open. I roll over and look back at my door to see Perry peeking in, checking on me. He looks a little uncomfortable when he sees that I‘ve seen him being all protective and caretaker-y. Our eyes stay locked as he seems to argue with himself whether or not he should say something, and finally he spits out whatever gay, sentimental thing he’s stressing over saying.
“Sleep well, Harry.”
I look back at him for a moment before flipping over entirely to face him and close my eyes again. “Night, Per.”
Title: The Breadwinner
Fandom: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Characters: Harry Lockhart, Perry Van Shrike
Table: “If You Were” Challenge from
Prompt: 10) If I was hungry you would feed me
Words: 3015
Rating PG-13, for language, criminal activity, and implied homosexuality
Disclaimer: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and all characters therein belong to Shane Black & co.
Summary: Harry never has to worry about where his next meal is coming from anymore, and that’s almost a bigger gift than Perry’s friendship itself.
---
New York is absolutely frigid this time of year, especially at this time of night. You’d think, having grown up in Indiana, that I’d be used to the cold, but noooo. Give me a sweltering heat wave anytime. Now would be nice, actually. Because like I said, it’s really fucking cold. It doesn’t help that it’s windy as hell and about to start raining - or even snowing - anytime now.
You might be wondering why I would be outside in the middle of the night in the middle of a storm when it’s almost below twenty degrees outside. I’m wondering that myself, actually. Normally I wouldn’t be out right now unless I was on a job… but I’m so fucking starving.
I get to the little 24 hour store on the corner and hurry inside. It’s dry and the air is still, and I can hear the heater running and pause a moment just to enjoy it - the heat in my apartment hasn’t been working right for weeks, so the only times I’ve felt really warm is when I’m inside a store or something.
At the jingle of the bell on the door, the guy behind the counter looks up. I give him a friendly smile. He narrows his eyes before offering a cold one in return, making me falter only a little. Unfriendly asshole. But I’m pretty much used to people thinking I’m little more than scum, and it doesn’t really bother me so much anymore, so I let it go. He watches me carefully as I move around the shop, trying to figure out how much I can buy with the ten in my pocket, because between the rent and a lack of good hauls lately, it’s all I have for now.
I can feel my heart sinking when I realize how little that amount really is.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me. It’s a little unnerving, especially when I look up and catch his eye, and he just gazes intently back at me. My smile this time is a little strained, a little uncomfortable. I wish he wouldn’t stare at me like that.
I come up to the register with a loaf of bread and two bags of beef jerky. I give the cigarettes behind the counter a longing glance - because, dammit, I could really use a smoke - while he rings up the total. I can only just barely manage to cover the tax, so there‘s no way I can get my nicotine fix until I can get some more cash.
I give Mr. Creepy Staring Shopguy a thank you that‘s as cheery and polite as I can manage, to which he grunts and gives me a sarcastic smile that looks more like a sneer as he shakes out his newspaper. I pull my coat a little closer and head for the door. The air pressure from the wind pushes it back, and I grit my teeth against the freezing air that hits me. I can feel the shopkeeper’s eyes follow me until I pass out of the view from the window. My food is in a paper bag that I hug close to my chest, trying to keep it as dry as possible, and I have two cents leftover in my pocket.
Back at my tiny apartment, I put the bread and jerky both in the fridge - because cold food sucks, but moldy food is worse - and then grin as I start pulling candy bars out of my sleeves. A box of Poptarts and a narrow jar of trail mix are pulled out of the front of my coat. These, and the candy, bread, and jerky, join the lone orange and half-gone bottle of apple juice on the shelf.
I eye my meager stockpile doubtfully and settle on a jerky and M&M sandwich for dinner. I should be good for another week with this.
We’re in a restaurant, a proper one with individual menus and cloth napkins and real dishes and silverware. “We” includes me and Perry and Harmony, and the waiters have cleared away a chair so that Perry’s wheelchair can fit at the table. Unfortunately, the table and chairs are too high, so it still comes up nearly to Perry’s chest. He grimaces but says nothing. I think he believes it’s worth it just to be out of the hospital and away from the horrible health food they shoved down our throats during our stay. I know I’m glad to have finally left.
I can feel both of them staring at me while I wolf down my food. I’m not sloppy or anything, but I still finish every crumb before either of them is half done, and then sit there fidgeting and feeling awkward for the rest of the meal. I laugh and try to brush it off, and they both smile a bit uncertainly, but I still catch them giving me sidelong looks when they think I’m can’t see - this one says ‘is Harry just being a weirdo again?’ and the other says ‘there must be something wrong.’ Both of my two best friends are shooting me both those looks. Dammit. I mean, I know I have trouble keeping my emotions off my face at times, but really, this isn’t something they need to worry about. Hell, this isn’t something that I need to worry about.
Not anymore.
Inwardly, I’m kicking myself for it, berating myself. No one’s going to take it away, Harry. It’s not like this is another stolen meal you might catch trouble for, Harry. You have an income now, Harry, you don’t need to worry about this being the last full meal you’ll have for the week.
It doesn’t work. I still feel that happy sort of feeling that comes with a full stomach, laced with the slightest flicker of dread that I won’t see as much food as this for a while.
Harmony asks if I’m still hungry and it takes every ounce of willpower to say no. And I’m not, not really. I’m kinda used to not having much food, so I don’t really want anything else right now. Except I do, because I’m kinda fucked up, if you haven’t noticed, and if I didn’t have my pride, I’d probably have asked for a box and scraped both their plates clean, just to ensure that I’d have some food for later. It’s just instinct, or something, for me to be this careful about food, but I know it’s not normal, and I know I can stop worrying about it, but I just can’t.
Perry says nothing except that their garlic bread is too salty for his tastes as he puts his roll on my emptied plate. I manage to mutter a mortified thank you and chew it slowly, avoiding my best friends’ eyes.
Worse still is the moment when it’s time to pay the bill. Harmony tries to pay for me, but Perry is having none of it and insists on paying for all three of us. He waves his ATM card at us as an excuse, saying it makes more sense than each of us trying to pay for our separate meal when there’s only one tab. Which is very efficient of him, just the sort of thing you’d expect from Perry. But he also refuses to accept reimbursement from Harmony.
My face burns and I shift uncomfortably, because Perry already paid for my recent medical bills. And not only were they extensive (‘cause, yanno…bullet wounds, electrocution, spontaneous finger amputation-and-digestion, and general beatings kind of lead to an extensive bill) but I don’t even have any medical insurance to help cover the cost either. And if that wasn’t already enough, he’s also offered me both a job with him and a place to stay. I mean, what the hell? I’m just the idiot from New York who got him shot within four days of meeting him. He really has no business trying to pay any of this, let alone for my food too, and let’s also not forget Harmony’s meal.
But even though I know all of this, even though I could technically pay for this particular meal myself, the selfish, self-preservation-y part of me is locked in place, making me reluctant to even offer. Not that Perry would even accept it anyways, I know. He’d just shove it back across the table at me like he did for Harmony. But there’s still that little voice whispering that if I offered him the eight dollars, I wouldn’t see them again, so I hold my tongue for once.
It’s quiet in the car, the radio off for once because I can see the migraine building in the lines on Perry’s forehead. It’s late, past midnight, and we’ve been out on a surveillance for the past five hours. I’m exhausted, Perry is exhausted, and we both just want to go home.
I try to ignore the growling in my stomach and concentrate on everything I’m going to pile together into a sandwich when we get home. I want turkey, chicken, and ham, and tomatoes, and olives, American cheese and some of that fancy havarti stuff Perry likes, and put it all between wheat bread slathered with ranch dressing. God, I’m hungry…you know what, I actually don’t care what’s on it as long as it’s FOOD… and this so isn’t helping.
I’m so distracted I hardly notice Perry pulling into a shopping center parking lot until I hear the static on the intercom. “Hi, welcome to Taco Bell! What can I get you?”
I shift a little and stare at Perry. “What are you doing, Perry? You hate Taco Bell.”
“Well I figured you were hungry. Or was your stomach just having a lover’s quarrel with your intestines?”
I blink and grin, and quickly tell him what I want before he changes his mind.
Five minutes later, and Perry sipping a diet coke through a straw while I chow down on a grilled stuft burrito. I moan with appreciation and Perry makes a face.
“Thank you, Perry,” I say before he can complain about the noise. If my voice sounds too happy over a burrito, I tell myself it’s because it’s a damned good burrito. It's not because I am no longer damned hungry. It’s certainly not because Perry is being nice to me. Which he isn’t. Not really, anyways. My stomach growls were probably just making his headache worse.
“Just don’t get beans on the seat,” is all he says.
I readjust the damp washcloth on my forehead for what feels like the hundredth time and let out a miserable sigh that wastes no time turning into a rough cough. It feels like my throat is tearing itself up, and by the time I regain control over myself, Perry has appeared in the living room door, eyeing me with concern. Oh boy, I must look really bad to be getting that look from him now.
He stands there and watches me sniffle. I sit here and watch the television screen. After a minute, he moves into the room, closer to where I’ve curled up on the couch. “Harry, are you hungry? You should eat some dinner. You haven’t eaten all day.”
I groan. I am hungry. But I haven’t eaten all day because I was certain if I tried, I’d just throw it back up, and Perry would kill me if I stained his perfect white carpets. I shake my head and manage to rasp out a ‘no, thank you,’ ignoring both the look on his face and the churning in my stomach.
He doesn’t move, and I steal a glance at him. Fuck, why is he still giving me that look, like I‘m a puppy he wants to take home and fatten up? Perry doesn’t even like puppies, and he’s certainly not the type to take one home to feed. Anyways, I go back to staring fixedly at the TV as soon as our eyes meet, and he doesn‘t say anything. I pointedly ignore his presence until the commercials finally come on, at which point I steal another glance…
But he’s gone from the room. Fuck me, I’ve been pointedly ignoring an empty room. You’d think, since I’m sick, Perry would at least have the decency to stay in one spot and let me ignore him but nooooo, he has to be all, sneaky-ninja-Perry and disappear in the middle of me ignoring him. Fuck. Now I’m sick, hungry, and embarrassed.
I sit up, a bit tired, but not too weak, and hit the mute button on the clicker. Without the blaring noise from the soap commercial (why are the commercials always like, ten times as loud as the program? It’s ridiculous and annoying) I can hear Perry in the kitchen, pans clattering as he starts to cook.
I stay on the couch for couple minutes, watching the commercials on mute and listening to Perry making something. The show comes back on, but I don’t un-mute it yet. Instead, as I hear something start to sizzle in a pan, I get up from the couch, pulling a blanket around my shoulders, and pad into the next room.
Perry’s standing at the stove, frying something up. There’s a bowl on the counter and a collection of various ingredients that I look over as I sit down at the table. It’s a really strange assortment of items to have out for one dish. I try to imagine what they might make together, but my head aches too badly to figure it out. I give up and rest my head on my arms with another pitiful groan that makes my manhood wince, but I feel too shitty to actually be all embarrassed over it.
I’m still watching Perry, and he seems to notice. He glances over his shoulder and frowns. “Stay over there. I don’t want your cold germs in my dinner,” he says.
I try to snort and fail through the congestion, instead triggering another coughing fit. “Oh thanks,” I finally manage to gasp out. “Your concern for my well-being is so touching.”
“Shut up,” he says, but there’s no heat in the words. I turn my head to press my eyes into my arm, shutting out the impossibly bright kitchen lights.
Ten minutes later a plate is thunked down in front of my face, startling me. I lift my head a little to see a short, steaming stack of pancakes in front of me, a little butter and syrup (less than usual) dripping down the sides. My whole mouth waters.
Perry sits down across from me. He has eggs and bacon with his pancakes, but the very sight of them makes my stomach clench and I have to look away. For a minute, I’m very glad that I can’t smell anything.
Perry frowns at me again. “Eat that. I know you don’t feel good, but you need to have something. It’ll probably help settle your stomach just to have something in it anyways.” He takes a bite of eggs.
I stare at him dolefully, then look down at the pancakes. Fuck, they look great. My stomach growls and Perry smirks. I give him a glare as I pick up my fork, but it’s too soft for him to feel offended, just like his snarking earlier was too soft to offend me.
The pancakes are… really good, soft and sweet and hot. Perry makes the best pancakes I’ve ever had anywhere. Normally I’d have more syrup than is on these, but if I had any more sugar on this, I probably really would throw up. Didn’t really matter, they were still perfect just like this. Perry’s pancakes (and wouldn’t that make a great name for a breakfast diner) would even be great cold with nothing on them.
Actually, I’ve had them cold and they were almost even better. People underestimate the value of cold and reheated foods sometimes. I guess I’m more used to it because back in New York, that was sometimes all I had, but even now that I’m living with Perry and don’t have to have food that’s cold or not quite fresh, every now and then I’ll have a hankering for some of the foods that I’d found tasted as good or better when you’re just slumming the kitchen….goddammit, I’m getting sidetracked again!
Of course, Perry was right; within five bites of pancake-y goodness, the weight in my stomach has helped calm it down, and I no longer feeling like I’m going to make a mess on the floor. I speed up and start taking bigger bites, and Perry actually has to tell me to slow down a little, but he’s smirking as he says it and the lines on his forehead have smoothed out a little, and I realize I’ve been worrying him. I almost feel guilty, but then I remember, I’m sick! Of course he should be worrying about me!
By the time I’ve finished I can feel myself starting to doze off right there at the table. Perry sweeps my plate out from under me before I get a face full of syrup, taking it to the sink to rinse it. “Go to bed, idiot.” He says without looking up.
I sleepily murmur an agreement and get up, yawning. “Thanks, Per,” I slur on my way out, “was really good…”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve poured myself into bed and am drifting into some much-needed rest when I hear the door crack open. I roll over and look back at my door to see Perry peeking in, checking on me. He looks a little uncomfortable when he sees that I‘ve seen him being all protective and caretaker-y. Our eyes stay locked as he seems to argue with himself whether or not he should say something, and finally he spits out whatever gay, sentimental thing he’s stressing over saying.
“Sleep well, Harry.”
I look back at him for a moment before flipping over entirely to face him and close my eyes again. “Night, Per.”