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“Wake up! I think there’s a robber!” David whispered urgently, shaking Patrick’s shoulder.
Patrick bolted up in the bed, his heart pounding. David was given to dramatics, but the distant clanging in the kitchen lent weight to his words. Patrick slid out of bed, shrugging off sleep along with his blanket, and fumbled for the Louisville Slugger he kept beneath their bed.
David pulled the flashlight out of his nightstand and they crept downstairs, David plastered to Patrick’s back like a sweat-soaked jersey.
Finally, they made it to the kitchen door and Patrick took a deep breath, steeling himself to defend his husband and home. He leapt out into the middle of the doorway with a (he hoped) threatening bellow, bat cocked above his head.
David peeked around the door frame a split second later, sweeping the flashlight around the kitchen.
There was no robber, no sign of any disturbance—wait, what was that? David whipped the light back to the kitchen island and the flashlight illuminated a paunchy raccoon calmly eating macaroni and cheese out of the garbage can.
"The fuck you looking at?"
Patrick and David exchanged nervous glances. "Um. Nothing,” said Patrick. He kept his bat at the ready, because you never could tell with raccoons.
"That's right, nothing. I didn't see your name on this mac and cheese."
“Excuse me! I was saving that for a late night snack!” David sputtered indignantly.
“David...we’ve talked about this particular habit of yours. Let the raccoon have it.”
“But Patrick!! I used the good cheddar!”
“Which I appreciate immensely,” said the raccoon, reaching for another handful. “Most people use that pre-packaged, powdered crap. But this...this is the good stuff.” He licked the cheese off his fingers without breaking eye contact.
"See, Patrick? Some people appreciate mac and cheese with actual cheese."
"Wait, you're using the raccoon to shame me over my mac and cheese preferences?"
"They're shameful and you should be ashamed."
The raccoon scraped the last bit of cheese from a piece of plastic wrap and discarded it, rummaging deeper for more snacks. “Ooh! And there’s garlic bread! Jackpot!”
David cut off a quiet, desperate noise.
“What, were you saving this for later?”
Patrick shot David an incredulous look.
“What?! That was really good garlic bread!”
“You want it? Come at me, bro.” The raccoon bared a mouth full of tiny, needle-sharp teeth.
“Okay, first of all, I am not your bro,” David huffed, and Patrick put a warning hand on his chest.
“Whatever, bro.” The raccoon tore a chunk off the garlic bread. “You mind putting down that bat and getting that light out of my eyes? I’m just here to get a bite to eat, not steal your silverware.”
“In our defense, you’re in our kitchen in the middle of the night,” said Patrick about as reasonably as one could to a talking raccoon.
“Look, I’m just a working stiff like the rest of you and I don’t need any drama. I just want a quiet dinner, then I’m gonna go home, watch the Leafs game and show the old lady a good time. So put the bat down.”
Patrick looked from David to the bat in his hands, then back to the raccoon calmly cramming a handful of garlic bread into his mouth. Patrick lowered the bat and nudged David with his elbow to lower the flashlight. “Oh. Um...sure. Sorry.”
“Yeah, you should be,” the raccoon sneered. “You got a buttload of carbs in this garbage. I don’t see a single vegetable.”
“W-we ate them all,” said David. He swatted Patrick’s arm. Patrick blinked and then nodded frantically.
“Uh huh. Sure you did. I just bet you got those tree-trunk legs by eating all your veggies.”
“See?” hissed David, looking far more vindicated than anyone should be during a 3 a.m. conversation with a mouthy raccoon.
“Oh my god,” said Patrick. “For your information, I got these legs from doing squats.”
“Yeah. I bet you did,” the raccoon said, demonstrating that it really was possible to chew skeptically.
“He honestly does do squats,” said David helpfully.
“Mmhmm, sure,” said the raccoon, sucking at his teeth.
“Show him, honey,” David urged.
“David! I’m not—I’m not doing squats in our kitchen in the middle of the night to prove a point to a talking raccoon who, not for nothing, is trying to shame me for not eating vegetables.”
“Hey, I’m a straight shooter. When I see a spade, I call it a spade,” said the raccoon, scratching his belly comfortably. “No need to get your undies in a bunch. It’s none of my business that you don’t take your nutritional needs seriously.”
Patrick blinked slowly. “This from the raccoon eating literal garbage out of—Okay, you know what? I’m going back to bed.”
“God, some people are such sticks in the fucking mud,” the raccoon muttered under his breath, shaking his head wearily. “So why don’t you take your stick and your little night light and tippy-toe back to bed, Tree Trunks. The guy who appreciates good cheese can stay.” The raccoon held out a hand, a gloopy chunk of bread clasped in its fingers. “There’s a little garlic bread left, if you want it.”
Patrick rolled his eyes, grabbing David by the arm and attempting to drag him back to bed. But David’s feet were planted firmly, his eyes fixed on the raccoon’s offering. “David, you’re not...oh my God. Fine. Fine! Stay and hang out with your new best friend.”
“I’m just saying, it’s really good garlic bread.”
“David.”
“Okay, okay! Just...I’m kind of hungry, now that we’re up.”
“David.”
David took one last look at the garlic bread, then shook his head, turning to follow Patrick back to bed. “Ooh, you know what?” David whispered in his ear, “I just remembered I’ve got a box of Girl Guide cookies in my nightstand!”
“Excuse me.” The raccoon cleared his throat delicately. “Did you say Girl Guide cookies?”
“N-no,” David stammered.
The raccoon narrowed its eyes. “What flavor?”
David sighed and flailed his arms helplessly in the air. “Ohmygod! Thin Mints, okay? I have Thin Mints!”
The raccoon grimaced, and Patrick was struck by the sight. Who knew raccoons could grimace?
“Ew. I hate mint.” He waved at them dismissively. “Go on back to bed with your disgusting cookies. I’ll lock up when I’m done.”
Deflated and defeated, they turned and headed back to bed. Patrick tucked the bat back under their bed while David rummaged around in his night stand, producing the aforementioned box of Thin Mints. He popped one into his mouth and sighed happily. “Mmmm! So good!”
Patrick rolled his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. “Can I have one?”
David sighed and handed over a cookie. Patrick moaned around a mouthful of chocolate and mint. “God, these really are the best Girl Guide cookies.”
“Hmm,” David hummed in agreement. “Your opinions on cookies are much more acceptable than your opinions on powdered cheese. Powdered cheese, Patrick!”
“David…”
“It’s extremely incorrect,” David added with a grin. “And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
“Are we really counting the opinion of a literal raccoon who is eating out of our garbage can as we speak?”
“Hey, a correct opinion is a correct opinion,” David said airily. “Just because he’s eating out of the garbage doesn’t make him wrong. I eat out of the garbage. And I’m always correct.”
“Uh huh,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes and reaching to switch off his bedside lamp. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“I will, thank you very much,” David said, snuggling down with his head on Patrick’s chest as they began to doze off. Neither heard the quiet scrape of the kitchen window closing as their late-night dinner guest showed himself out.