The Twitter Artist Formerly Known As LiteFMGangsta (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
finefoxyladies) wrote2008-03-15 01:17 pm
finefoxyladies) wrote2008-03-15 01:17 pm
Since the package of Pop Tarts and crap mags will be way late...
Happy, happy birthday, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
piecesofalice!
A day early! Or a week early? I think! Australia is in a different time zone than Chicago, right? Or a different calendar year? Or...your birthday really isn't on St. Patty's Day and is, instead, later in March?
The Pancake Flight
Sheriff Wendell didn’t have much in the way of furniture. Mrs. Bell remarked on it at least once a week when she brought over banana bread or molasses cookies or something else she said she’d "just been bakin’ up," but seemed like her way of feeding his sweet tooth while monitoring the poor condition he allowed himself to live in.
"Would it kill you to get a decent sofa, Wendell?" That was what she said most often. He found that his response was a few excuses mumbled around a baked good, while his brow drew together in a sort of protective defiance. He knew better than to be contrary to Mrs. Bell.
"Did you stop seeing that gal from up around Dallas? That little spitfire state trooper? What does she think of this situation?"
"Well, I used to spend most of my time there, what time I could. Haven’t had much time lately...not since I got elected." What Wendell did not share is that Marcy broke it off and was seeing some lawyer. Or so he’d heard.
"Used to," Mrs. Bell repeated back.
Wendell cursed himself for making that mistake; Mrs. Bell may not have been any part of policing, but she knew enough. "Hmm." She stared at him hard. He braved a smile.
"We can’t all have Sheriff Bell’s luck, ma’am."
The corner of Mrs. Bell’s mouth twitched, but she did not smile. "Don’t you try and charm me, mister."
"Yes'm." There was a pause. Wendell reached for another cookie.
Mrs. Bell said, "Come on over for breakfast on Sunday before church. I’ll make pancakes."
The knock on the door was sharp and impatient. Ted was reminded of the FBI all those years ago. Then he opened the door to Dani Reese’s mirrored aviators and stony expression.
It was disconcerting. To say the least.
He used his spatula to gesture behind him. "Charlie’s just...finishing up. Something."
Giggling flittered down the staircase like glitter. Ted looked into Dani’s reflective eyes and saw himself, sheepish and resigned. And wearing an apron.
"Want some pancakes?" he offered, by way of apology.
She looked over the carefully prepared fresh-fruit toppings and said, "Do you have maple syrup?"
He knew by the way she said it that she was asking simply to be contrary. Sometimes he wished he could relate to Charlie that way…instead of dicing mangoes and strawberries for 15 minutes while a twentysomething actress/waitress tittered upstairs.
He nodded and produced a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth. Then he offered the coffee pot. "Want a refill?"
She set her thermos cup on the counter. "Thanks." Then she unsnapped her holster.
Ted hesitated.
"If he’s not down after one pancake, I’m going to go up there and shoot him."
"Well..." Ted finished pouring and set the carafe down. "Okay."
"Two eggs, over easy, bacon, hash browns, and coffee." Lassiter was already peeling the tops off creamer cups when Juliet sighed.
He looked up to find her fixing him with what could only be described as a concerned-but-also-disappointed stare.
"Whole wheat pancakes, please, and the fresh fruit salad."
Lassiter rolled his eyes.
After the waitress left and Lassiter doused his coffee with fake dairy and real sugar, she said, "Carlton, you’re going to be forty soon. You know, hopefully."
"I spent five years without over-easy eggs and bacon, O’Hara. I think that my exercise regiment and basically single status means that I can indulge once again without being nagged."
Juliet huffed, her loose strands of blonde fluttering. "I’m not nagging."
His steely gaze was his reply to her denial.
"Well, I don’t consider concern nagging. And maybe not so much sugar." She took the canister away, leaving a sweet trail that led to her glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.
"O’Hara!" he barked, wrapping his fingers around the sugar and, by extension, her hand.
He felt the rapid thud of his heart against his shoulder holster and looked into her eyes. Her stern gaze was replaced with uncertainty. A pinkish hue was spreading across her nose.
She let go first. He set the canister down on her side of the table.
The rest of the breakfast was spent in an uncomfortable silence.
Lassiter only drank half his coffee.
Here's hoping you have another year full of rakes and "tl;dr old men are hot" posts.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
I was all set to be in a prepatory PTSD way about Robin Hood.
Then I saw this...Whitesnake, y'all. Guy/Marian vid set to Whitesnake.
piecesofalice!A day early! Or a week early? I think! Australia is in a different time zone than Chicago, right? Or a different calendar year? Or...your birthday really isn't on St. Patty's Day and is, instead, later in March?
The Pancake Flight
Sheriff Wendell didn’t have much in the way of furniture. Mrs. Bell remarked on it at least once a week when she brought over banana bread or molasses cookies or something else she said she’d "just been bakin’ up," but seemed like her way of feeding his sweet tooth while monitoring the poor condition he allowed himself to live in.
"Would it kill you to get a decent sofa, Wendell?" That was what she said most often. He found that his response was a few excuses mumbled around a baked good, while his brow drew together in a sort of protective defiance. He knew better than to be contrary to Mrs. Bell.
"Did you stop seeing that gal from up around Dallas? That little spitfire state trooper? What does she think of this situation?"
"Well, I used to spend most of my time there, what time I could. Haven’t had much time lately...not since I got elected." What Wendell did not share is that Marcy broke it off and was seeing some lawyer. Or so he’d heard.
"Used to," Mrs. Bell repeated back.
Wendell cursed himself for making that mistake; Mrs. Bell may not have been any part of policing, but she knew enough. "Hmm." She stared at him hard. He braved a smile.
"We can’t all have Sheriff Bell’s luck, ma’am."
The corner of Mrs. Bell’s mouth twitched, but she did not smile. "Don’t you try and charm me, mister."
"Yes'm." There was a pause. Wendell reached for another cookie.
Mrs. Bell said, "Come on over for breakfast on Sunday before church. I’ll make pancakes."
The knock on the door was sharp and impatient. Ted was reminded of the FBI all those years ago. Then he opened the door to Dani Reese’s mirrored aviators and stony expression.
It was disconcerting. To say the least.
He used his spatula to gesture behind him. "Charlie’s just...finishing up. Something."
Giggling flittered down the staircase like glitter. Ted looked into Dani’s reflective eyes and saw himself, sheepish and resigned. And wearing an apron.
"Want some pancakes?" he offered, by way of apology.
She looked over the carefully prepared fresh-fruit toppings and said, "Do you have maple syrup?"
He knew by the way she said it that she was asking simply to be contrary. Sometimes he wished he could relate to Charlie that way…instead of dicing mangoes and strawberries for 15 minutes while a twentysomething actress/waitress tittered upstairs.
He nodded and produced a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth. Then he offered the coffee pot. "Want a refill?"
She set her thermos cup on the counter. "Thanks." Then she unsnapped her holster.
Ted hesitated.
"If he’s not down after one pancake, I’m going to go up there and shoot him."
"Well..." Ted finished pouring and set the carafe down. "Okay."
"Two eggs, over easy, bacon, hash browns, and coffee." Lassiter was already peeling the tops off creamer cups when Juliet sighed.
He looked up to find her fixing him with what could only be described as a concerned-but-also-disappointed stare.
"Whole wheat pancakes, please, and the fresh fruit salad."
Lassiter rolled his eyes.
After the waitress left and Lassiter doused his coffee with fake dairy and real sugar, she said, "Carlton, you’re going to be forty soon. You know, hopefully."
"I spent five years without over-easy eggs and bacon, O’Hara. I think that my exercise regiment and basically single status means that I can indulge once again without being nagged."
Juliet huffed, her loose strands of blonde fluttering. "I’m not nagging."
His steely gaze was his reply to her denial.
"Well, I don’t consider concern nagging. And maybe not so much sugar." She took the canister away, leaving a sweet trail that led to her glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.
"O’Hara!" he barked, wrapping his fingers around the sugar and, by extension, her hand.
He felt the rapid thud of his heart against his shoulder holster and looked into her eyes. Her stern gaze was replaced with uncertainty. A pinkish hue was spreading across her nose.
She let go first. He set the canister down on her side of the table.
The rest of the breakfast was spent in an uncomfortable silence.
Lassiter only drank half his coffee.
Here's hoping you have another year full of rakes and "tl;dr old men are hot" posts.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
I was all set to be in a prepatory PTSD way about Robin Hood.
Then I saw this...Whitesnake, y'all. Guy/Marian vid set to Whitesnake.