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]

"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.

[if_inconvenient]

(Sherlock likes cooking, too. Perhaps because he is good at it. Perhaps because Tony isn't.

The lack of mysteries would never have occurred to him. There are not a whole lot of mysteries in Sherlock's life, at least not once he's done with them.)

[formoftherapy]

(When your brother disappears without a trace, you lose your love for mysteries rather quickly.)

Kite rifled through cupboards and drawers until she finds a large platter and a spatula.

Steadily, pancakes start stacking up.

"I'll gladly do all the cooking, but you've got to serve yourself."

[if_inconvenient]

"No objection."

In fact, he might just steal one right now.



(There is always a trace.)

[formoftherapy]

(Maybe some day she will tell him about it. But not today.)

Pour. Flip. Flip.

"Good."

[if_inconvenient]

Yoink!

Nom.

Plates are for people who care.

[formoftherapy]

And that is the last of the batter, and thus, the last pancake.

Kite does get a plate, but that is because Kite approves of butter and syrup.

[if_inconvenient]

Idly, he calculates the odds that Tony will drop by.

It largely depends on Jarvis's sense of tact, which is superb; on the other hand, Jarvis can be quite meddlesome, and if he thinks the population of this house will be better served by his telling Tony that breakfast is under way, then that is what he will do.

[formoftherapy]

Jarvis had better make up his mind soon; there's a finite number of pancakes, after all.

Kite constructs a tower of tasty goodness and promptly digs in. Physical activity followed by emotional outbursts give a girl an appetite.

[if_inconvenient]

Sherlock appropriates the wine bottle.

[formoftherapy]

Kite has never combined wine and pancakes.



But she's giving it some serious thought.

[if_inconvenient]

"You will be driving," he cautions her.

Not psychic. Just... Sherlock Holmes.

[formoftherapy]

Kite does not pout; she just stabs her pancakes a little more forcefully.

[if_inconvenient]

As tempted as his mun is to throw Tony in here, Sherlock concludes that tact has won out: there is no sign of his double, and the pancake supply is dwindling rapidly.

[formoftherapy]

Kite drags her thumb through the syrup and melted butter mess on her plate, licking it clean.



"Should start heading back," she says at last. "Mom'll be wondering where I got to."

[if_inconvenient]

He takes a drink from the bottle instead of responding.

[formoftherapy]

Kite stacks her plate, the mixing bowl and the frying pan in the sink, filling each with warm soapy water.

That done, she heads out of the kitchen.


She's back in five minutes, with her purse and wearing her shirt rather than Tony's.