Work Text:
The morning seeped through the window of the room, evolving into a deluge of light as the sun finally decided to grace the sky.
In his sleep, Linnell furrowed his eyebrows, and turned away, trying to cling on to the last minutes of rest. He pulled the covers up as high as he could, essentially entombing himself in the blankets. Normally, he wouldn’t be too fond of the feeling of them on his face, but his desire for five extra minutes overrode the distaste for the texture.
Geting back from tour was never easy, nor did it get any easier as the years went on. It was a great run. Lots of different cities, lots of different things to see, but sometimes— most times, the best place was just being back home.
He sniffed, the new scent of food leading him to slowly open his eyes and sit up. Wait. John wasn’t in bed, where could he have gone?
Flansburgh stood in the kitchen, his index finger partly in his mouth, attempting to soothe a burn. Pots, pans, and utensils littered the counters, both used and unused, evidence of his attempts to figure out what he needed.
MC Fresh Step lay on the ground next to him, almost stumbling over him as he tried to move to the next cabinet. “Some sous chef you are,” Flans muttered to the cat, stepping around him.
“Need any help?”
Linnell’s voice behind him made him jolt, almost dropping the jar in his hand.
“Oh, uh… no?” Flans responded, offering his best situation diffusing smile.
“You’re a bad liar,” Linnell wrapped his arms around his middle, yawning and resting his head on his back. “what are you making?”
“Well… I don’t think it’ll work… if you know about it.” He set the pot on the stove, adjusting the heat.
“Think what will work?”
“Just trust me!” Flans laughed. “Go back to bed, okay?”
“It’s much warmer with you there,” Linnell murmured, holding him tighter, careful not to push his glasses into the side of his face.
“I won’t be too long. Promise. Ooh, wait. Before you go, can you do one thing for me?”
“Sure, anything, John.”
“Can ya take MCFS with you? Keeps tripping me.”
Linnell rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth upturning ever so slightly. “C’mon. Let’s go,” He said, hoisting up the cat. “too many cooks, I suppose.”
Flans continued to work as the two left, stirring the pot in front of him. He squinted at his phone propped up on the microwave, trying to read the recipe. It wasn’t one he was too familiar with, but how many times does one get to make homemade applesauce?
He’d like to have done it more, but as per usual, they were just so busy these days. Touring, recording, the days rarely ended with a proper meal. But now was the inbetween time, a time where they could be free to do whatever they pleased. Though Linnell woke up earlier than Flans had hoped, his plan would still go through, he’d see to it.
It was odd going back to bed once he was already out of it, but Linnell did his best to appear as cozy as possible. He sat up directly in the middle, supported by pillows, comforter and blanket resting at his waist. MC Fresh Step leapt up and after taking a couple calculated steps across him, took up residence on top of his legs. Now even if he wanted to move, he was stuck.
He smiled to himself seeing Flansburgh briefly pass in front of the doorway as he went back and forth. It wasn’t exactly a secret what his plans were, but it was sweet he was trying to keep them secret.
It reminded Linnell of times before, when there were longer lulls in between ventures. In that one bedroom apartment, the hallway of a kitchenette so small, he could stick out his arms and touch both walls. He wondered if even now, though it was so long ago, the burn marks from when he first tried to cook there still had a presence in some way shape or form.
He couldn't remember what he’d tried making, only Flans’ smile and the way he’d said “My turn next.” The fact it had been Flans’ turn since then didn't really bother him.
“Okay… are you ready?” Flans asked, his voice honeyed with excitement.
“Yes, should I close my eyes, or is taking my glasses off enough?”
“It’s alright, you’re gonna want to see this.” He brought out a tray with a plate, a small dish, and a mug.
“Oh, John,” Linnell whispered. It was simple, a couple of slices of French toast, a little serving of applesauce, and— judging from scent alone— his favorite coffee. “thank you.”
“It’s been a minute since I’d brought you breakfast in bed,” Flans absentmindedly twisted the undone tie of his robe around his hand. “been so busy, but y’know, it never slipped my mind. So, nothing fancy, but just know. My blood, sweat, and tears went into it.”
“Figuratively, I’d hope?” Linnell chuckled, gesturing to the bandages around Flans’ fingers.
“Hey. Who knew the stove was hot?” He set the tray down, the legs on either side of Linnell’s lap, and sat down himself, next to him. “I really hope you enjoy.”
“I know I will, you made it for me.”