Work Text:
That's What Plan B Is For
Kylie is woken up by the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of a frying pan scraping against the stove grill. She groans, turning over in bed, sliding a hand across the sheets to the other side, and when she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, she lets out a resigned sigh and opens her eyes. Another morning where Erica beats her to making breakfast, it seems. She runs a hand over her face, trying to shake off the lingering sleep, then sits up. Stretching a little to wake herself up a bit more, she finally gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen to see what ‘culinary wonder’ her girlfriend has prepared this time.
On her way there, something catches her attention, making her step back a few paces and stop in front of the calendar hanging in the hallway. For a moment, she had forgotten that Valentine's Day was this week. She runs a hand through her hair, already dreading whatever extravagant idea Erica has come up with to celebrate. As long as they don’t almost set the house on fire with fireworks like a few years ago with that forest, she supposes anything is fine.
Shaking off the memory, she continues on her way to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. Crossing her arms, she smiles softly as she watches the brunette moving back and forth in front of the stove, the scent of eggs and bacon mixing with the aroma of coffee, making her appetite stir.
"I thought it was my turn to make breakfast," she says, announcing her presence, and her smile widens when Erica jumps slightly from the surprise.
“For fucks… ugh! Don’t do that, stupid Jew!” Erica protests, glaring at her over her shoulder with a frown. “I go through the trouble of making you a delicious breakfast, and this is how you repay me? Trying to mess it up?”
"Uh-huh, whatever you say." Kylie steps closer, wrapping her arms around Erica’s waist and resting her chin on her shoulder, peeking at the frying pan. "I hope that bacon isn’t for me," she jokes.
"You wish you could grace your taste buds with this delight." The brunette laughs, pinching her arm. "Now let me go, leech. Go sit down, this is almost done."
Kylie rolls her eyes, biting Erica’s shoulder lightly in revenge before letting go and taking her usual seat at the breakfast bar. Less than two minutes later, Erica places a plate in front of her, containing only scrambled eggs and a couple of pancakes, then sets down a cup of coffee beside it.
"Thanks," Kylie smiles softly, taking the cup and sipping her coffee while she waits for Erica to finish so they can eat together.
Luckily, she doesn’t have to wait long. The brunette turns off the stove and serves herself bacon, eggs, and even more pancakes—far more than Kylie has on her plate. Humming to herself, she sets her plate down, pours a cup of coffee, and takes a seat. They both begin eating at the same time.
When they decided to move in together, Kylie hadn’t expected that falling into such a domestic routine would be so easy for them, especially since she never, not even when they first started dating, would have considered Erica the type of person to willingly cook for them both at any given chance, much less steal her turn to do it. Then again, she supposes she should’ve seen this coming. They had agreed that one would cook while the other handled the dishes afterward, and somehow, Erica always managed to make more of a mess than necessary just to make Kylie clean up more than she usually would when it was her turn to cook.
She smirks, more focused on enjoying the calm morning than on her breakfast.
“By the way,” Erica’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts, “what do you want to do for Valentine’s Day?” She leans on the counter, placing a hand over Kylie’s to stop her from idly playing with her food. Her own plate, nearly empty, sits off to the side.
“Since when do you ask for my opinion about our dates?” Kylie replies, raising an eyebrow, her voice laced with skepticism.
A mischievous smile spreads across Erica’s lips, her fingers trailing playfully along Kylie’s wrist, making her heart race, as always, despite knowing that whatever comes out of Erica’s mouth next will probably annoy her.
“Sweetheart, we both know that asking for your opinion makes you feel like you have a say in the decision-making,” Erica says nonchalantly, slipping Kylie’s fingers away from the fork to intertwine them with her own, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “So, got anything in mind? Just to pretend I won’t do the exact opposite.”
Normally, Kylie can let comments like that slide because, at the end of the day, Erica is right; she gave up on trying to change her mind or at least tone down her plans years ago. However, for some reason, those words feel like a pang in her stomach, making her wonder if Erica is the one carrying all the emotional weight of making their relationship work, if Kylie isn’t trying hard enough to show her love.
Haven’t things always been this way? Kylie was the one who initiated the relationship, taking the first step by calling a truce in their constant hostility and, albeit clumsily, starting to court her. But Erica has been the one handling all the important romantic aspects. The brunette plans all their romantic getaways, drops hints whenever she wants something specific as a gift, and without fail, she makes sure their anniversary is just as memorable as their first one every single year.
It’s not like Kylie hasn’t tried, of course, she has! What kind of girlfriend would she be if she just went along with everything? But romantic gestures come naturally to Erica. It’s no wonder she earned the nickname "Cupid" in high school. Sure, it started as a way to scam potential couples, but her matchmaking skills were so good that even now, almost ten years later, Kylie still hears about the couples Erica set up getting married or having kids.
Erica Cartman is the queen of romance, and Kylie… well, she’s just Kylie.
"How about..." she says softly, looking down at her plate, gathering courage, "how about I plan our date this time?"
If she had to pinpoint where the thought came from, she’d have to blame Stacy. They had met up the previous weekend to catch up after weeks without seeing each other, and when her best friend asked what they were doing for Valentine’s Day, Kylie’s response that Erica hadn’t told her the plans yet seemed to baffle her.
“Ky, no offense, but whenever this comes up, your answer is always ‘Cartman will handle it,’” Stacy had said with concern. “I don’t want to meddle in your relationship, but you should put in some effort too.”
The fact that Stacy, of all people, took Erica’s side in an issue that, until that moment, Kylie hadn’t even realized was an issue hit her like a bucket of cold water.
"You?" Erica blinks, surprised. "You want to plan our date?" And before Kylie can affirm it, the brunette lets out a laugh so loud that, had she not been leaning on the counter, she might have fallen backward.
Of course, her reaction is enough to trigger Kylie’s temper. So much for a peaceful morning.
“What? I’m perfectly capable of planning a stupid Valentine’s date,” she snaps defensively, pulling her hand away and crossing her arms indignantly.
“Oh, baby, don’t be like that.” Erica tries to stifle her laughter, wiping a few tears from her eyes. “It just caught me off guard.”
“Why? What’s so surprising about it?” Kylie tightens her arms over her chest, fighting the urge to shrink into her seat. She forces herself to recognize that the sparkle in Erica’s eyes is one of affection and amusement, not that’s she’s mocking her.
“Kyal, don’t take it the wrong way, but…” Erica pauses for a moment, carefully choosing her words, “it’s just not exactly your strength, that’s all.”
Well, that doesn’t sound like she’s not planning to mock her.
“What do you mean by that?” Kylie narrows her eyes, irritated.
“I mean, Jew, you’re not exactly the best at planning things,” Erica replies calmly, shrugging as if that simple gesture could take away the offense in her words.
“Excuse me, but I’m actually pretty good at planning things.” If anyone asks, Kylie is definitely not pouting. She’s a grown woman, after all.
“Yes, sweetie, you’re very good at planning things.” Erica nods, reclaiming the coffee mug she had abandoned at the start of the conversation, and for a moment, the redhead feels the tension leave her shoulders. “Boring things. Like the when to pay the apartment bills or taxes.”
The tension returns in an instant, and only because the mug Erica is holding is new, a gift, and most likely still full of hot liquid, does she stop herself from jumping on her. The audacity.
“Do I need to remind you who planned our last vacation?” she asks through gritted teeth, clenching her jaw tightly.
“The hotel we stayed at and the itinerary. I planned all the fun stuff,” Erica counters, setting the mug aside.
“Your funeral is the next thing I’m going to plan if you don’t shut the fuck up,” Kylie retorts, leaning back when Erica tries to take her hand.
“See? Boring things.” Erica smiles, taking her hand anyway, intertwining their fingers and lifting it to her lips to place a kiss on her knuckles. Kylie ignores how the gesture melts away some of the tension in her body. “Let’s pretend for a minute that I’ll actually consider it. Why the sudden interest in planning our Valentine’s Day?”
The redhead looks at their joined hands, feeling her face heat up.
“I just wanted to do something… nice for you,” she says reluctantly, refusing to look at the smug smile that is surely forming on her girlfriend’s face. “You always plan ridiculously over-the-top dates…”
“Hey,” Erica protests weakly, giving her hand a squeeze.
“And I thought that this time, I could be the one to take care of it,” Kylie finishes, finally looking up.
Erica meets her gaze, surprised, not just by her words, but by the uncertainty in her voice. Her Kylie is always so confident and passionate that seeing her hesitate over something like this does things to her heart. God, this Jew is going to be the death of me, she thinks fondly.
“Ugh, fine,” she rolls her eyes, ignoring how her cheeks heat up. “If you want to plan the date so badly, go ahead.”
Kylie’s face relaxes, relief washing over her features, and a huge smile spreads across her lips, making Erica’s heart race. It doesn’t help at all, with the redhead sitting in front of the window, that the morning light illuminates her face, highlighting her freckles, something that always makes Erica melt a little inside. Kylie has no idea how lucky Erica feels to have her by her side.
“Well, finish your breakfast. You wouldn’t want to be late for work,” Erica says, letting go of her hand to pick up her mug, trying to hide how much worse her blush has gotten.
“You should do the same,” Kylie points out, turning her attention back to her breakfast.
The plan was simple: a candlelit dinner on the apartment balcony. Practical, private, and romantic. Maybe it’s not as extravagant as what Erica usually plans, but this is for them; enjoying an intimate date every now and then isn’t going to kill the brunette.
Kylie is sure that nothing can go wrong. She’s going to prepare one of Erica’s favorite dishes, or at least something she knows she likes besides KFC. She’s going to decorate the balcony to set the mood, and to top it all off, she ordered a necklace as a gift, one she knows will look perfect on her girlfriend and will also match one of her favorite dresses.
Simple, with no room for mistakes.
And yet…
The first obstacle in her plans quite literally falls into her lap as she’s getting ready to leave work—in the form of more paperwork, handed over by her immediate supervisor. She tries to protest, reminding him that she had requested, well in advance, to leave early. The whole point of that was to prepare dinner with plenty of time to calmly take care of everything else. The man simply shrugs, claiming that no one else can handle those specific documents. How convenient.
Resigned, she has no choice but to get to work and finish as soon as possible, hoping not to fall too far behind her personal schedule. Somehow, more papers keep piling up on her desk, and by the time she finally finishes, it’s much closer to her original clock-out time than she had planned.
As she leaves the office, she curses her supervisor under her breath because now her entire plan is delayed by at least two hours, forcing her to rush through the things she least wanted to hurry. With some luck, she tells herself as she gets in her car, there won’t be any more setbacks, and dinner will be ready just before Erica gets home.
There must be some force conspiring against her, because when she gets to the apartment and goes into the kitchen to take out all the ingredients she needs, she realizes that she’s missing some crucial ones. In disbelief, she closes the fridge door and opens it again, as if that will magically make them appear, but no, they’re definitely missing, and she needs to go out and get them soon, completely unwilling to make any changes to the menu.
She slams the fridge door, retracing her steps back to the living room to grab her keys, cursing herself for not double-checking that she had everything beforehand.
"If I had known, I would’ve made a quick stop after work," she mutters to herself, getting into her car to drive to the nearest store.
She almost immediately regrets not walking instead because as soon as she reaches the main road leading to the store, she runs straight into rush hour traffic. Had she not checked the time before leaving? If she had, she could’ve avoided this. She grips the steering wheel tightly, realizing it’s too late to turn back now; she has no choice but to continue inching forward, cursing everyone’s incompetence and mentally listing every single dumb move people make that worsens the congestion.
By the time she finally reaches the store and rushes to buy what she’s missing, the strict timeline she set for herself is delayed by at least another half hour—if not an hour, considering the return trip means facing the same traffic again.
She arrives home flustered, struggling with her shoes at the entrance and nearly falls if not for grabbing onto the armrest of the couch. What doesn’t share the same luck is the bag she’s carrying, which slips from her grasp, spilling ingredients at her feet. That’s not too big of a deal since she planned to wash them anyway, but what does matter is the glass container of sauce she was going to use. She watches in horror as it falls, bounces on the carpet, and then drops again, this time hitting the uncovered edge of the floor, shattering instantly.
“Fuck,” she mutters, running a hand down her face. Well, she guesses she has no choice but to do without the sauce… or attempt to make her own from scratch. Does she even have the ingredients for that?
She shakes her head, pushing the thought aside. If she focuses on everything going wrong, she tells herself while carefully picking up the scattered ingredients, she’ll spiral, and nothing will be ready on time. She won’t let anything ruin her plans. Nothing.
She steps around the sauce mess, deciding to clean it up later, and heads straight to the kitchen sink. Everything that can sit in water for a while goes in carefully, the plug in place, and she turns on the faucet. The rest goes directly into the fridge. She rummages through the cabinets until she finds a pot, making a mental note to scold Erica later for being so disorganized, and fills it with water to put on the stove.
She turns on the burner, adds salt to the water, covers the pot, and steps out to grab the cleaning supplies. The last thing she needs is the entire apartment reeking of cheese sauce, right? While she’s at it, she changes into something more comfortable to avoid ruining her work clothes.
Back in the living room, she puts on thick cleaning gloves and starts picking up the glass shards. Halfway through, she realizes she has nowhere to dispose of them, so she stands up and heads to the kitchen to grab the trash can. She throws in the glass pieces she’s already collected and pulls out the bin to take it back with her. Kneeling near the mess, she resumes picking up the remaining shards, and once satisfied, she starts wiping up the thickest parts of the sauce, tossing the rag into the trash can every so often.
When all that’s left is a stain that needs scrubbing, she gets up to return the trash bin to the kitchen. However, she pauses, realizing she might as well take the trash out now. She sets the bin down, ties up the bag, and goes to grab her slippers before heading outside to the dumpster. Halfway there, she remembers she should also take out the bathroom trash, so she turns back to grab that bag too. With both in hand, she heads back out and quickly tosses them away before rushing back upstairs to finish cleaning the stain.
Before scrubbing, she checks if any sauce got on the carpet, and luckily, it didn’t, so she only needs to deal with the floor. She pours some cleaning products on it, grabs a brush, and starts scrubbing, putting as much force into it as possible, cursing herself for what feels like the twentieth time in the last hour for not doing this first. She pauses, suddenly remembering that she left the sink running in the kitchen. Did she turn it off? She doesn’t remember doing so.
She jumps up and dashes to the kitchen to check.
“For fuck’s sake,” she curses upon finding that not only has the sink overflowed, but the water she put on the stove is also boiling over violently, spilling from the edges of the covered pot.
The sink is the priority, so she rushes over, only to slip on the wet floor, smacking her side against the counter. She grits her teeth, doing her best to ignore the sharp pain spreading through her ribs, and quickly turns off the faucet, pulling the drain plug to let the water out. She takes a deep breath, half-relieved, straightening up carefully before making her way to the stove, mindful not to slip again. That’s when she realizes she accidentally set the burner to high heat, explaining why the water boiled so quickly.
Groaning in frustration, she grabs an oven mitt and lifts the lid, stepping back slightly to avoid the steam rising toward her face. Once it dissipates a bit, she peeks into the pot, grimacing when she sees that more than half the water has evaporated.
It takes her a moment to calm the urge to throw the lid in frustration, forcing herself to take deep breaths until the impulse fades. She dumps the remaining water, refills the pot, and puts it back on the stove, ignoring the water soaking into her slippers. This time, she keeps the heat at medium. After adding salt and covering it again, she grabs a mop to deal with the flooded floor before the water starts seeping into the cracks.
Once that’s handled, she checks the ingredients soaking in the sink, praying they’re still usable. Relief washes over her when she finds them intact, so she decides to prep them before finishing the cleaning in the living room.
She pats the vegetables dry, peels and chops them, placing them in a container. Checking the water on the pot, she’s satisfied that it has started to boil in a more controlled manner and throws in the pasta she had left on the counter. She covers the pot and goes to the living room to finish what she has pending there.
Although things seem to be calming down, she is fully aware that she doesn’t have even half of what she wanted ready by this time. She can feel frustration bubbling under her skin, but she clings to the hope that there won’t be any more setbacks. She finishes cleaning the living room and returns to the kitchen to continue preparing dinner, trying to focus on the act of cooking rather than the mess of emotions turning into knots in her stomach.
Time flies by in the kitchen, and when she is about to put the lasagna she prepared into the oven, she realizes two things. First, she won’t have time to decorate the balcony as she wanted, in fact, she’ll barely have time to do something decent with her hair. The second is that, in all the commotion, she completely forgot to pick up Erica’s gift.
“Shit, fuck, shit,” she mutters as she hurriedly places the lasagna in the oven, pressing her hands against the edge of the door.
Should she turn the oven on? The jewelry store isn’t too far away, and she’s completely sure she can go and be back in ten minutes, flat. After all, she ordered it in advance precisely so she would only have to pick it up. On the one hand, leaving with the oven on is a huge fire risk, she wouldn’t be able to relax knowing she did that. On the other, she’s running out of time, and going and coming back just to turn the oven on will delay her another ten minutes. The lasagna will be ready in fifteen minutes, but the thought of burning down the apartment over an easily preventable accident…
The sound of a phone notification startles her because, for some reason, it echoes through the entire place like the bells of doom.
“No, calm down, you’re overreacting,” she tells herself, letting go of the oven door, which closes softly. “It’s because the phone is in the living room, and with the apartment so quiet, of course, it’s going to echo,” she reasons aloud as she walks to retrieve it.
Once she has it in hand, she unlocks it and sees a message from Erica.
‘At hme in 3ty,’ the message reads, with the horrible spelling mistake the brunette insists on making. Kylie is sure she does it on purpose just to get on her nerves. Wait, ‘3ty’? What does that mean? Three-ty? Thirty? Thirty minutes? Why, of all days, did Erica have to leave work early today?
Because it’s Valentine’s Day, genius.
“Shit.” She tightens her grip on her phone, almost dropping it when another notification comes in.
‘I'm dieing 2 c wut surprize u have 4 me, babee.’ There is no way in the world that isn’t misspelled on purpose.
“Fuck.” A wave of anxiety slithers under her skin, creeping up her neck and squeezing her throat, leaving her breathless. Thirty minutes, she has thirty minutes to get everything ready, and she still doesn’t have the fucking gift.
She grabs her keys, ready to rush out to the jewelry store, but stops at the door, looking at her clothes. The shirt she’s wearing has traces of the sauce she made for the lasagna, and her sweatpants are stained at the knees with cleaning product and the sauce she spilled earlier. She’s sure her hair is a complete mess from all the touching and pulling she’s done in the past few hours. There’s no way they’ll even let her into the jewelry store looking like this.
She’s forced to go back inside, head to the room, and find something to change into quickly. In her search, she comes across one of Erica’s red sweaters, which, given its size, will at least reach her thighs, covering her shirt completely. If she puts on some sneakers, she can pretend she just got back from running or the gym.
She puts on the sweater and changes her slippers for a pair of sneakers. Grabbing a hair tie before leaving the room, she pulls her hair into a messy bun and, at the last moment, decides to stop by the kitchen. Promising herself it will be no more than ten minutes, she checks that the lasagna tray is properly positioned, turns the oven on to slow cook, and rushes out of the apartment.
Ten minutes, she repeats to herself as she walks briskly. Ten minutes, in and out. Just ten minutes.
She reaches the jewelry store in record time, relieved to have made the trip so quickly, and approaches one of the clerks, who, luckily, isn’t too busy.
“I have an order to pick up under Kylie Broflovski,” she says quickly, her words tumbling over each other.
“Good afternoon, how can I help you?” The clerk gives her a forced smile, exhaustion evident in her features, making Kylie grimace in apology.
“Sorry, yes, good afternoon. A pickup order under Kylie Broflovski?”
“Of course, one moment,” the woman nods, turning her attention to the computer in front of her.
Kylie waits as patiently as she can while the clerk searches for her name in the system, silently pleading with any universal force willing to listen to stop messing with her patience. She cannot afford another setback, or else…
“Ah, here it is. It’s ready. Give me a moment, and I’ll get it for you,” the clerk informs her before turning to retrieve her order.
Kylie sighs in relief, playing with the sleeves of the sweater to stop herself from leaning against the counter. See? In and out, ten minutes, you have plenty of time, she tells herself, taking a deep breath.
“Here you go, Miss Broflovski.” The clerk returns, placing a small bag in front of her, perfectly decorated with a bow shaped like a heart. “Have a wonderful rest of your day. Thank you for choosing us. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Thank you very much.” Kylie smiles softly, taking the bag.
She walks toward the exit, ready to run if necessary to get back to the apartment faster. But before she reaches the door, something makes her stop. Uneasy, she looks at the bag in her hands, a bad feeling crackling inside her. She turns on her heel and walks back to the counter, placing the bag down.
“Sorry to bother you again… Ivana,” she reads the name on the clerk’s badge, offering an apologetic smile. “Could you open it and let me see the box inside?”
The clerk raises an eyebrow as if she wants to ask if Kylie is doubting her competence, but she smiles and nods, taking the bag. She opens it and pulls out the box, setting it in front of her.
Kylie exhales when she sees it’s the same one she picked when placing the order, but the bad feeling remains, pressing against her chest. So, she takes the box and opens it to inspect its contents.
Her heart drops, and she pales at the sight.
“This isn’t what I ordered,” she blurts out, looking up for answers. Ivana stares at her as if she’s lost her mind.
“That is exactly what you ordered,” she replies, her tone slightly defensive.
The patience Kylie was trying so hard to maintain begins to wear thin.
“I’m absolutely sure I paid for a necklace. This is a bracelet,” she argues, turning the box so Ivana can see the contents.
Now it’s the clerk’s turn to pale.
“I’m so sorry… Please, give me a moment,” Ivana takes the box and the bag, stepping away from the counter.
A lump forms in Kylie’s throat, and she can feel her eyes starting to sting.
No, she tells herself, shaking her head. This is not the time for that. Even if they’re tears of frustration and helplessness, crying won’t solve anything. It’s a mistake she’s sure can be fixed in no time. She still has time, she reminds herself. She still has time.
In the end, it turns out it's not a problem that can be solved in ‘no time’. Ivana returns with her manager, who explains that there was a mix-up and that a couple of orders got switched, including hers. The woman assures her that the person who ordered the bracelet hasn’t picked it up yet, so there’s a chance the necklace is still in the jewelry store. The problem is that it will take some time to identify which customer placed the order, and even more time to locate hers.
Her options are to pick it up in a week or cancel the order entirely and receive a refund. Kylie is tempted to give both the woman and the incompetent moron who made such a massive mistake a piece of her mind, but in the end, yelling won’t accomplish anything. So, she agrees to pick it up later and leaves.
She’s not sure when exactly she gets to her apartment, having let her body move on autopilot, but she’s certain nothing worse could possibly happen now, right?
She takes a deep breath as she reaches her floor, searching for her keys in her pocket. Well, she tells herself upon finding them, it’s fine. She can totally give her partner a Valentine’s gift a week late. It was the jewelry store’s fault, after all. Erica will surely understand, right?
She laughs bitterly, knowing there’s a high chance that instead of understanding, Erica will throw a tantrum just for the sake of throwing one. Or worse, she might make fun of her… Honestly, she almost prefers the tantrum.
Still, she’s going to cling to the tiny possibility that Erica will actually understand. Her sanity depends on it. That and having dinner ready without any more setbacks.
The second she thinks it, she feels like she’s jinxed herself, and any comfort she had disappears. Her fears are confirmed the moment she opens the door and the smoke alarm starts blaring, the smell of something burnt flooding the apartment from the kitchen.
Great. Just what she needed.
“Please, please” she mutters as she shuts the door behind her and rushes to the kitchen to turn off the oven.
She already knows before opening it that the lasagna is beyond saving, but she tries anyway. She grabs the oven mitts, opens the door, and is immediately met with a thick cloud of smoke that makes her cough violently. She waves her hands in an attempt to clear it, pulls out the oven rack, and lifts the aluminum foil to assess the damage.
There’s no damage to assess because there’s nothing to save. It’s completely burnt. A second longer, and she’s sure it would’ve burned through the bottom of the pan and created a mess inside the oven.
“No, no, no, no,” she whispers, dropping to her knees in front of her ruined effort, tears welling up in her eyes against her will.
No, there has to be something she can do. It can’t all be ruined. It can’t be… The entire night, carefully planned down to the last detail, is now a disaster. The whole fucking night is ruined. The pressure in her chest tightens, making it hard to breathe.
“Honey! I’m home!” Erica’s energetic voice reaches her, making her tense. Not now. “What the fuck? Why does it smell like something’s burning?”
The comment is the final straw, and like a dam breaking, tears spill down Kylie’s cheeks.
“Kylie?” The redhead barely hears her name over the piercing sound of the alarm, the pounding in her ears, and the sob that escapes when she tries to say something.
“Whoa, are you okay? Did you burn yourself? What happened?” Erica kneels beside her, trying to get her to look at her, but Kylie refuses to turn, covering her face as she tries to stifle her cries.
The frustration she’s been suppressing for hours overflows in waves through her body, making her sobs worsen, turning almost aggressive as anger joins the storm of emotions. What the hell was she thinking? She knew she shouldn’t have turned on the oven, and yet she took the risk anyway, and ruined everything.
“Kyal, baby, don’t cry.” When it becomes clear she won’t respond, Erica pulls her into a tight hug, gently stroking her hair. “Take a deep breath before talking, because I can’t understand a fucking thing you’re saying.”
Kylie hadn’t even realized she was talking until Erica pointed it out. Automatically, she takes in a deep breath, which only makes her choke, but it seems to help calm her down. She pulls away, sniffling loudly.
“Dinner burned,” she says hoarsely. Her face feels like it’s on fire, and she’s not sure if it’s from embarrassment, the tears, or the lingering heat from the oven. Probably all of the above. Maybe because she hates that Erica is seeing her like this.
“I can see that,” Erica nods, cupping her face in her hands, stopping her from hiding behind hers again. “Look at you, my beautiful Jew,” she murmurs, wiping away her tears, sighing when new ones replace them. “Can you stop crying already? I have no fucking clue what to do when you cry.”
“Wow, thanks, Cartman,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes, but a small smile tugs at her lips as her tears start to slow.
“Always a pleasure, ginger. Now, what exactly happened?”
Defeated, Kylie explains the disaster that has been her plan since minute zero. As she speaks, her face turns redder and redder under Erica’s intense gaze, especially since she never lets go of her face, leaving her no room to hide. When she’s about to mention the gift, her words fail her, and she decides to leave it out. She’s already humiliated enough.
“Let me get this straight,” Erica nods with a serious look, her face solemn. “Your whole plan went to shit?”
“Basically,” she admits, looking away.
“So… you admit I’m better at this?” The solemn tone vanishes, replaced by smug amusement. Looking back at her in disbelief, Kylie finds the most shit-eating grin she’s seen in years.
Suddenly, the exhaustion she was feeling a second ago is replaced by an overwhelming urge to hit her. So she does, punching her arm as hard as she can.
“Ow! Kyal!” Erica finally releases her, rubbing her sore arm. “Don’t take it out on me!”
“You’re such a…” She bites her lip and looks away, crossing her arms. As if ruining Valentine’s Day wasn’t enough, Erica just had to turn it into a fucking competition.
No surprises there, really.
“Don’t be like that, Kyal.” Erica chuckles, placing her hands on Kylie’s waist and attempting to pull her closer. But with both of them still kneeling, it’s awkward. “Ugh, I hate this. Get up so I can hug you properly.”
“I don’t want you to hug me.” Kylie resists, pressing more firmly against the floor.
“Don’t be like that, Jew. I’m trying here,” Erica whines dramatically. When Kylie makes no move to get up, Erica stands and, without warning, grabs her hands and pulls her up.
“Erica!” Kylie protests, nearly losing her balance.
“Kylie!” Erica mimics her indignant tone. Once Kylie is where she wants her, she wraps her arms tightly around her waist and presses a kiss to her chin. “Come on, Kyal. Everything’s fine.” She kisses her cheek. “Are you really gonna let a little series of unfortunate events ruin our night?”
The answer isn’t exactly yes, but the silence says otherwise.
“Alright, here’s the deal.” Erica kisses her neck, rubbing soft circles on her waist, smiling a little when Kylie’s body reacts despite her reluctance to look at her. “How about you go take a nice, relaxing shower while I take care of things here?”
“Erica…” Kylie starts to protest, weakly attempting to put some distance between them.
“There’s a little surprise for you in my side of the closet, under the shoe rack,” Erica continues, kissing her shoulder, looking at her softly. “Wash your hair too, I’ll take care of it when I’m done here.”
Kylie wants to resist a bit more, but honestly? Just hearing that there’s a surprise waiting for her piques her curiosity. She sighs, tired, and nods, pressing a kiss to Erica’s cheek before pulling away to head to the bedroom.
Maybe a shower is exactly what she needs to clear her head.
The "little" surprise turns out to be a box, pink with white hearts and a red ribbon.
Inside, Kylie finds an emerald-green jumpsuit that fits her like a glove when she puts it on. Not only is it a color that suits her well, but it's also closer to her usual style than what Erica usually gifts her. The top is crossed over, covering her chest while giving a slight glimpse of her waist and back, not enough to make her uncomfortable, of course. The bottom is wide, flowing down to her heels, and when she puts on a pair of matching shoes, also a gift from Erica, the hem doesn’t get in her way.
The gift is perfect, and it would make her feel guilty about the disaster she caused if not for the alarm bells ringing in her head.
“Did you buy this as my Valentine's gift, or did you plan for my idea to fail?” she asks when Erica steps out of the bathroom, walking straight toward her to help with her hair.
“I have no idea what you're talking about, sweetie,” Erica says, blinking innocently at her while carefully detangling her curls.
“Erica…”
“Don't distract me; I'm doing your makeup too. We have thirty minutes before the reservation,” she interrupts, playfully tapping her shoulder.
“Reservation? Erica, what…?” Kylie stops, looking at her girlfriend’s reflection in the mirror, her expression relaxed as her fingers skillfully work through her curls. “You…”
“Me?” Erica meets her gaze through the mirror, smiling softly.
“You… did you plan this?” she asks in a choked voice. If Erica had set this up to sabotage her…
“God, you make it sound like I purposely ruined your sappy romantic dinner plan,” the brunette rolls her eyes, spreading styling cream through Kylie’s hair before starting the hairstyle she has in mind. “No, sweetheart, I didn't plan for your dinner to fall apart.”
“But you conveniently had a reservation ready…”
“At your favorite restaurant,” Erica says excitedly.
“And new clothes for the occasion,” Kylie continues, ignoring the blush creeping up her cheeks upon realizing where they'll be dining.
“Kylie, baby, you're sexy all the time, except when you overthink things, so stop that.” Erica pauses for a moment, moving to stand beside her and gently cupping her face. “I had absolutely nothing to do with what happened today.”
“Erica…” Kylie warns, swallowing hard.
“But I knew something would go wrong, so I prepared for it,” Erica admits, pressing a kiss to her forehead before releasing her and turning back to her hair. “You're always the one talking about having a plan B for everything. This is the plan B.”
Kylie stares at her in disbelief, her heart clenching at the realization. Erica knew… and instead of trusting that she could pull it off…
“Oh no, no crying,” Erica wipes away the tears that stubbornly roll down Kylie’s cheeks. “Please, turn your brain off for a second. There’s literally nothing to overthink here.”
“Is this what you meant when you said planning isn’t my thing?” Kylie asks, clenching her hands tightly, trying to control the tears. God, she hates crying. Once she starts, she can’t stop.
“Okay, we’re having this conversation,” Erica sighs, sitting beside her on the stool Kylie is using, both ignoring the creaking wood under their combined weight. “Kylie, your problem is, and I mean this literally, not as a criticism, shocking, I know, but your problem is that you're a perfectionist to the point of being neurotic.”
For some reason, the words don’t surprise her. She’s heard them before, not just from Erica, and she’s sure this won’t be the last time.
“These kinds of plans aren’t something you should overthink and plan out down to the last millisecond. And yes, I saw your Excel spreadsheet with the schedule you made to ensure everything was ready at the exact time you wanted,” Erica rests her cheek against Kylie’s shoulder, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it. “Romance isn’t something you can micromanage down to the last detail, sweetheart.”
“You do it,” Kylie pouts, squeezing her hand.
“We both agree that I was literally born to be a matchmaker, right? I’m not a fair comparison,” Erica grins smugly, straightening her posture with pride. “But half the time, I let things flow naturally, and the other half, I only plan what I know I can control.”
“Like the fireworks and the forest fire?” Kylie teases, smirking.
“Okay, not my fault the weather boy got the wind direction wrong that night,” Erica defends herself, raising her hands, but never letting go of Kylie’s.
“It could’ve been avoided if you remembered fireworks are illegal, Erica. Besides, it was obvious something was going to happen because…”
“And you just proved my point,” Erica pokes Kylie’s nose, grinning when she tries to pull away. “You get too caught up thinking about what could go wrong and trying to prevent it. In doing so, something else ends up going wrong, and you freeze.”
The comment reminds Kylie of the issue with the jewelry store. She really doesn’t like that Erica is right about this.
“If it makes you feel better,” Erica says, pressing a kiss to her cheek before standing up, “it was really sweet that you tried to cook for me. I’m sure that lasagna would have been to die for.”
Kylie smiles, finally relaxing.
“Maybe next time,” Erica continues, going back to work on her hair. “I can handle the decorating however you want, and you take care of the cooking.”
That completely melts Kylie’s heart, making it race wildly. If someone had told ten-year-old Kylie, or even fifteen-year-old Kylie, that Erica Cartman had a soft side just for her, she wouldn’t have believed it. But now, it’s exactly what she needs to quiet her anxiety and calm her mind.
“That sounds great, sweetie,” she murmurs, hiding her smile behind her hand when the pet name makes Erica’s face turn red.
“Alright, let me finish your makeup, get myself ready, and then we’re leaving. We can’t miss this reservation.”
Kylie simply relaxes in response, letting Erica do her thing.
The rest of the night goes smoothly. In fact, Kylie enjoys it a lot, relieved that, for once, Erica went for something more low-key. Though they do have a minor hiccup when it’s time to pay the bill, both arguing over who should pay. Kylie insists it was her turn to handle the date, while Erica counters that she made the reservation, so logically, she should pay.
The argument escalates to the point where, in the end, the manager settles their bill, claiming it’s a Valentine's Day gift. The knowing smile the women share afterward makes him suspect it was all an act.
At the end of the night, back home, they help each other change out of their elegant outfits into pajamas, exchanging lazy kisses until they reach the bed, where they cuddle close, holding onto each other.
“Happy Valentine’s, my neurotic Jew,” Erica murmurs, leaving a small kiss on Kylie’s neck and sighing contentedly when the redhead shivers.
“Happy Valentine’s, my manipulative fatass,” Kylie responds with a quiet laugh, kissing Erica’s forehead and relishing the pleased hum the brunette lets out.
Slowly, both drift into a peaceful and pleasant sleep.