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It's a perfect Saturday morning. Pot of tea steeped, first cup down, the soft tick and woosh of the oven preheating filling the kitchen, playing counter tempo to the soft music bleeding through iPod headphones. A man with wild dark hair dances barefoot across his kitchen. He loves these quiet moments, the silly apron that whispers around thighs. He is graceful with no witnesses.
He dusts the dark granite counter-top and his hands with flour then reaches for the bright ceramic bowl holding today's dough. In a practiced motion he whips off the covering hand towel with a flourish and upends the dough onto the cool surface. Setting the bowl gently aside he cracks knuckles and neck with a twist of anticipation, this is the best part of the morning, tea and dancing aside. He raises his hands to beat the crap out of defenseless dough... and the morning slides sideways.
The perfect ball of dough, pale, firm and taunt, shakes like it's righting itself, then raises a single eye stalk to stare up at the giant hands about to pummel the stuffing out of it. The eye goes wide, the dough letting out a squishy, gurgly exclamation of obvious terror. It begins a sluggy, humpy backpedal to escape the human who is far too shocked to do anything but stare. Big eye swiveling around bonelessly on its stalk, it makes a beeline for the only familiar thing it knows, the brightly coloured bowl on the counter. It cuts a swath through dusted flour, leaving a trail of disbelief. Once at the bowl it reaches up with something enough like hands to make the still gaping human drop his. It pulls itself up, wiggling and worming until it manages to tip itself over the bowl's lip and pour thickly back into its relative safety. Then it pops up once more, just enough to take one last long look with its single eye before its almost hands grab the hand towel and pull it down over the bowl. Everything in the kitchen holds its breath.
"Rodney? Rodney?!" The second call is louder than the first, a note of alarm mixing with what had simply been annoyingly plaintive when the first call was not answered.
"What already? Enough with the yelling. It's too early for the yelling. I haven't had coffee yet." Rodney made his disgruntled way from the bedroom, running one hand through sleep flattened brown hair as he scratched his boxer clad ass with the other. As his comfortably warn t-shirt proclaimed, he was a genius, and could do both easily as he walked, even before his first infusion of coffee. Rodney padded his way into the kitchen in socked feet, only stopping to turn and take his first good look at his partner in all things, once there was a full cup of coffee in his hand. he rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes as the first strong sip scalded its way down his throat. It took a moment for early morning brain to move past John' silky black boxer briefs, tight white tank top, and silly frilly apron. To the fact that he was nearly as pale as his flour covered hands, and that he looked, well for lack of any more appropriate adjective, scared. "What's wrong with you? You look like you've seen a ghost."
John shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving an intensely interesting spot on the counter in front of him. John hunched his shoulders up in a defensive posture, as if he knew his next words would incur ridicule. "I don't think it was a ghost. But maybe an alien. Yeah, it might definitely have been an alien."
"Huh," Rodney blew out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. For a moment he'd been slightly worried. John had looked so... well, but aliens they could deal with. They had both been specially trained after all. It was why they were paid the insanely big bucks. Rodney held out his half full cup towards John in a gesture those who knew him would call down right selfless. "Maybe you need some coffee."
John finally managed to tear his gaze from the counter top, his hazel eyes cutting as they swept over the offered cup, one dark brow climbing up to try and meet the wild mop of hair that seemed to echo his indignation. "I don't drink coffee Rodney."
"Well maybe you should start. Your brain is obviously in need of caffeine, or something..." Oh yes, John' hair seemed to have a mind of its own, and it was looking downright offended.
"I had tea, just like I do every morning," John rounded on him, floury fists on lean hips. "And even if I hadn't, I didn't imagine what I saw. Besides... it's still in there." John pointed back to the counter. Rodney realized he was pointed to the bowl on the counter, the covered bread bowl.
Rodney almost asked 'what's in where', but thought better of it when faced with his partner's foreboding scowl. So he downed the last half of his coffee in two quick gulps, feeling the gears of his brain kick into action. Taking a deep breath he reminded himself of just what it might take to startle the man standing tense before him. He searched for words that weren't snippy or condescending, it wasn't easy, even with John. Snarky was his default setting. "Let's start from the beginning. Why don't you tell me what happened?"
John described his dough's miraculous rise to life, while Rodney made all of the appropriate noises, nodding in all the right places. He ruined the act by turning away for a second cup of coffee, it really was too pre caffeine for all this excitement, and on a Saturday, seriously.
"Rodney!" He cringed inwardly, that was not his partner's happy voice. "Are you even listening to me?!"
"Yes, yes, of course I am. You think your bread is possessed. That there's alien dough in our kitchen," Rodney gestured towards the bowl, slopping coffee over his hand as he did. "Ow, dammit!" He sucked on the offending fingers meeting John angry glare with one of his own. "I guess I just don't see what the big deal is, we're trained to deal with this kind of stuff. Why are you so afraid of a lump of flour? Shoot it or bake it or something..."
"Bake it?! What? No... I don't want to kill it. Ok yeah so it startled me and I may have over reacted a little. I don't expect to find aliens in our house. Though I suppose maybe I should. But no, I don't want to kill it." John turned back towards the counter, sort of sidling up to it, the bright bowl, and its trembling occupant. His voice was low, for the first time almost too quiet to hear. "I wanted to share it with you."
"Huh, share it, eh?" Rodney moved closer, finally relinquishing his coffee cup for the only other thing guaranteed to get his blood pumping. "I'm guessing you don't mean like, to eat?"
"Rodney! Don't say things like that, what if it can understand us?"
"So what? Just what are you thinking underneath that crazy hair of yours?"
"What if it's friendly?"
Rodney narrowed his eyes. The argument over cat versus dog had been one thing, now John wanted to add alien bread loaf to the mix? "So what if it is?"
While he spoke John had managed to ease his way back to the bowl on the counter. No sudden movements, his voice still just above a whisper forcing Rodney to follow suite. "You know how I feel about dough, right?" With surprising gentle fingers John pinched up corners of the towel and drew it away from the from huddled underneath. That one large eye rose up on its stalk to stare at him timidly as he lowered himself, chin resting on fists on the counter-top. The eye swiveled and Rodney settled down beside him, staring in fascination."So?"
"Oh, well... hmmm... it is kinda cute. But you're feeding it. And if it starts eating people, that's your fault too."
"Deal."
"So... what's for breakfast?"