first time for everything

[formoftherapy]

Kite wakes up first.

(They didn't sleep properly--cat naps lasting a few hours, only to wake up and fumble toward each other with varying levels of intent.

They give each other kisses and bruises and scratches, their hands and mouths and bodies. It's an even exchange and nothing is lost.)

She slides out of bed, tugging one of the pillows down to fill the space where she had been. She puts on her jeans and Tony's shirt, then goes downstairs to the kitchen.

Comments

[formoftherapy]

"And they don't exactly make Chicken Soup for the 'Inappropriate Feelings for my Sibling' Soul. It's just us."

Another sip.

"Faking it 'til we fucking make it."

[if_inconvenient]

Sherlock actually considers, for a moment, correcting her about the sibling part.

No.

He can't exactly stay angry with her—but every time he stops, he remembers seeing her. Seeing them. That tends to quash his companionable impulses.

[formoftherapy]

She sets the bottle down on the counter between them, tips her head back to stare at the ceiling.



"He a heavy sleeper?"

[if_inconvenient]

He glances at the clock. 5:48.

"I expect him to be stumbling down to his workshop within the hour."

[formoftherapy]

"I'll wait, then."

Her car keys are still up there somewhere.

[if_inconvenient]

Dryly: "To see him or avoid him?"

[formoftherapy]

She arches an eyebrow.

"To get my keys."

It's not that she doesn't want to see him, or that she's afraid of seeing him, or that she's backing off forever in some misguided honor coed thing because Sherlock was here first (even if he is his brother and isn't that twisted).

But she'd be lying if she said she wasn't a bit rattled and she needs a little longer to figure out how to act like she doesn't know what she knows.

[if_inconvenient]

"I am sure."

[formoftherapy]

Kite does the mature thing and rolls her eyes.

"You can't expect me to believe you want me to stick around."

[if_inconvenient]

"I cannot have what I want," he says flatly.



(Particularly because he's not sure he knows what it is.)

[formoftherapy]

Kite bares her teeth. It is nothing like a smile.

"Welcome to the human race, sweetheart."

[if_inconvenient]

"Nonsense."

He does smile, coldly.

"I have never been human."

[formoftherapy]

"Yeah, well--"

She almost makes another grab for the wine, but changes her mind. She has to drive soon. She has to drive as fast as she can.

"--maybe you're lucky."

[if_inconvenient]

Sherlock laughs.

It sounds a little like something breaking.

[formoftherapy]

Kite flinches.

"Quit that," she says, small and almost frightened. She puts a hand on his shoulder.

[if_inconvenient]

The laughter trails off into a huff of breath, then silence.



"I have never been lucky, either."

[formoftherapy]

"Me, either.



'S probably overrated."

[if_inconvenient]

His laugh this time is softer, less destructive.

He never did anything about her hand on his shoulder.

[formoftherapy]

She doesn't do anything about it either.

(It's funny--for all that they look the same, she doesn't think she could ever mistake him for Tony.)



"Listen, I'm gonna need more than Cheerios to be sobered up and survive the drive back into town."

(She is perfectly sober now; what she drank from the bottle didn't amount to a glass and last night's alcohol burned off long ago. She hopes he won't question her.)

"You want some real breakfast?"

[if_inconvenient]

He does not, in point of fact, question her.

"No reason why not, I suppose."

[formoftherapy]

"Good."

His shoulder gets one last pat before she heads back to the pantry.

"Hope you like pancakes, because that's what you're getting," she adds, dragging a bag of flour off the shelf.

[if_inconvenient]

"I have no principled objection to pancakes."

He really can't stay mad at her.

[formoftherapy]

"Just what I like to hear."

Sugar, salt, and baking powder join the flour on the counter.

[if_inconvenient]

Sherlock could, technically, offer to help.

But he doesn't.

[formoftherapy]

Kite doesn't mind. She has a system.

A mixing bowl is found--or at least, a bowl the right size for mixing--along with measuring cups and a sifter. Kite raids the fridge next for eggs, milk and butter.

(Kite likes cooking because cooking makes sense. It has steps and order. If you do these things, this will be your result. If something comes out wrong, you can track it back to a cause. There are no mysteries.)

The batter comes together quickly. She wipes down a frying pan with a bit of vegetable oil, then pours the first ladle of batter into it. The pancakes are probably not going to come out round; that's the one part she hasn't mastered yet.