Chapter Text
The first rays of morning sun stretch through the Sturka-Umstead household's windows. Helen wakes first, like always. She brushes the covers off of her body, and she smoothes out her pajamas.
Carol, considerably less graceful in the early hours of the morning, murmurs groggily as Helen stirs.
“Where're you going?” she yawns.
“Gotta call Val.” Helen removes her pajama pants in favor of housewear pants. She picks out a pair of purple fuzzy socks that'll be roasted by the fireplace's heat in due time.
“I have to check something about the planned cover for Bloodsong—you know, the artist that I reached out to? She sent me a “sketch” that was obviously some computer-generated crap. I couldn't make the cover myself, but is it really hard to pick up a damn pencil?”
“Nope,” Carol tugs at Helen's yoga pants. “It's six in the morning. Stay and sleep with me.”
“It'll be quick, I swear. I just need to call her,” Helen argues.
“After that? No more work. I promise?”
Carol doesn't release her hold just yet. “Uh, do you need a reminder on what a weekend is?”
Helen exhales sharply through her nose.
“It's famously a pair of days when strung out busy-bees don't work their ass off in the wee hours of the morning,” Carol finishes.
After sending a quick text to Val, Helen places her phone down and dramatically rolls her eyes.
“Okay. Anything you say, cranky baby.”
Carol, satisfied with Helen's surrender, drags her beneath the covers and listens to Helen's breathing ease into soft puffs again.
Carol leaves the blinds wide open as she heads to bed on Saturday night. On Sunday morning, Carol wakes up bright and early.
She takes extra caution to be as quiet as possible through her morning routine. Her feet pad down the stairs silently. She starts a small pot of water on the stove for tea inside of microwaving a cup. She pulls a few raspberry leaves from the inside of the drawer, and she does not slam it shut.
Carol takes a tiny sip of her lukewarm leaf-water and allows her mind to drift to yesterday morning's breakfast.
After a few more hours of catching up on much needed sleep, Helen had insisted on starting their day at nine. Helen had brought out some freezer goods from their latest Sprouts trip. Despite being thoroughly cooked, the little frozen turkey sausages defrosted into a mushy, sludge-tasting slab.
Then, Helen had broken the poached eggs’ yolks. She'd rescued the drowning egg from the large pot and scooped it into the sausage pan, mixing it into a watery scrambled egg with a sludgy sausage glaze.
Carol had woken up feeling groggy for the second time yesterday morning, and she had regrettably not helped Helen with anything but the dishes.
Carol lays out everything she needs to make a proper breakfast for Helen: a three-quarters-full carton of oat milk, a carton of eggs, and a box of organic pancake mix.
While scrounging through the fridge, Carol finds some soft pink lady apples and a sudden desire to create.
Ten minutes later, Carol pushes two pans in the oven. One pan with two baked eggs topped with too much pepper, and one pan with sliced apples, shredded cheese, and a buttery cinnamon crumble.
It was some struggle-meal crap she'd picked up from Home Ec years in the past and had never fully let go.
While Carol waits for it to cook, she mixes a packet of lemonade into a pitcher and stirs it with a spoon counterclockwise.
After thirty minutes of holding her breath and sucking her lip each time she hears a bump upstairs, Carol finally finishes with cooking Helen's breakfast.
Two baked eggs. Cheddar cinnamon apple-fuck. Two pancakes. Oat milk. Pink lemonade. A mix of things Carol knows Helen likes and some that Carol has always wanted to share with her.
Carol looks down at the tray proudly, taking small steps to make sure she didn't mess it up at the last moment by tripping.
Helen's awake as Carol nudges the door open. She's nose deep in a book and thankfully not glued to the cell-phone.
Carol lowers the tray on Helen's duvet-covered lap and stands by her side, awaiting praise.
“Thank you, baby,” Helen grins. She immediately digs into the food. A smile cracks at Carol's lips as Helen lets out a low hum of satisfaction.
Carol watches Helen eat for a few beats until she feels Helen tap at her hip and ask why Carol didn't make any for herself.
A thoroughly flustered Carol just shrugs and blames it on eating too much the previous night. Carol hadn't even thought about her own needs this morning.
Helen gives her a bite of mushy cinnamon cheddar apple and Carol appreciatively takes it and smiles despite the eggy aftertaste.
Carol invites Helen to prepare lunch with her in a few hours.