[Original] Conjunction
Oct. 11th, 2010 08:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Conjunction
Source: Misc
Genre: Mainstream
Characters: Grace
Word Count: 856
Summary: Cooking dinner with her husband always was an intimate activity, but not even that was enough to get him to confess.
A/N: Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
origfic_bingo prompt "Cooking (with someone)"
The tape was rolling when she came in, arms full of bags and briefcase and winter coat. The two shopping bags went under the table in the foyer, surreptitious, the coat draped over the table and the briefcase was flung with great prejudice at the couch.
"You keep that up, you're going to need a new briefcase already."
Grace scowled in his rough direction, which had no effect whatsoever as he had his back to her and was fussing over a pot of pasta sauce. Good-smelling pasta sauce. "What are you making?" Into the bathroom for a moment while she scrubbed off the most caked-on of her makeup. There were few things she hated more than caked on foundation and glamour. The current job was one in the fashion publishing industry, and she had learned more catty comments and turned into more of a cutthroat bitch than she ever wanted.
It was good practice, though. She'd learned all kinds of ways to insult someone and smile and be polite about it.
"What did you say you were making?" she asked again, coming out of the bathroom and drying her hands.
"Pasta puttanesca..." he told her, and then frowned when she choked and had to catch her breath between giggles. "What?"
"Nothing. I... do you know what that means?"
"Obviously not?" Frown still present, his eyebrows arched at her. She shouldn't have laughed, though it was her first reflex when something slipped languages and became incongruous and funny to her.
She came into the kitchen and stepped up beside him, sliding an arm around his waist. "It means whorehouse pasta. You know what 'puta' means, right?" Irony in her tone, there. They were living in a city with a significant Hispanic population, he'd better know what one of the more common insults slung around town meant. He nodded. Then, off her prompting, put it together.
"Oh..."
"Yeah, oh."
He snickered over the pasta sauce as she went to grab the box of bow-tie noodles from the upper cabinet. She'd been pretty sure he would find it funny, too, as soon as she'd explained it. Feathers smoothed, they settled into their routine, moving around each other in the tiny kitchen. She ducked under his arm as he reached up, starting to put the dishes away.
"Garlic toast or..." His eyes widened in approval when she held up the tube.
She grinned. "Crescent rolls."
"Nice."
She crouched down to get them in the oven, shouldering his legs aside with a gentle nudge. Over her head, noodles clattered into the pot.
And then they could sit down for five minutes or so as everything cooked, baked, rose, or simmered. Ed tugged her into his arms and leaned his back and shoulders against the wall, sighing. She nuzzled into his shoulder. "You okay?"
"Just a little tired. It's been a long week already." His fingers combed through her hair, his voice thrummed at her temple.
"Mmph. And it's only Wednesday."
He snorted. "Don't remind me. I've got a deposition on Friday I'm trying to forget about. Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll plead out or something..."
It sent a shiver crawling down her spine when he said that. Grace knew the case he was talking about, knew there was a good chance that they'd plead out so he didn't have to give testimony at the deposition, and at the same time she didn't want that. Not that she had said as much to him, but she thought, she had a feeling it was more complex than they were trying to make it be. And it could benefit from being argued out in court.
Maybe not, she told herself. Maybe it was just unnecessary expense. Maybe she'd better check on those crescent rolls before they burned.
"Pasta ready?" he asked, watching her for a second without moving away from the wall.
"Um..." she stood, hissed a little as she dropped the pan onto the two unoccupied burners, and poked the pasta. "I think so."
"Good." Slow exhale, and he pushed off from the wall with his shoulders, slogging through the dining room to set their tiny table. "God, I'm hungry."
"Good thing there's plenty of food, then." And just to be playful and silly she put the serving bowl in front of him and his plate in the middle of the table. He swapped them back out with a mock-scowl.
The part she didn't expect was where he reached across the table to take her hand in his. She looked over at him and he looked back at her as though he was going to say something, but he didn't. She blinked, frowned. Was going to say something when his gaze shifted and they started dishing out the food in silence broken only by the soft chink of flatware on ceramic. Something had happened. He had almost said something, but she couldn't for the life of her think what it was.
By the time the moment became significant again it was many dinners later, and only the fact that he had been about to tell her something remained clear in her memory.
Source: Misc
Genre: Mainstream
Characters: Grace
Word Count: 856
Summary: Cooking dinner with her husband always was an intimate activity, but not even that was enough to get him to confess.
A/N: Written for
origfic_bingo prompt "Cooking (with someone)" The tape was rolling when she came in, arms full of bags and briefcase and winter coat. The two shopping bags went under the table in the foyer, surreptitious, the coat draped over the table and the briefcase was flung with great prejudice at the couch.
"You keep that up, you're going to need a new briefcase already."
Grace scowled in his rough direction, which had no effect whatsoever as he had his back to her and was fussing over a pot of pasta sauce. Good-smelling pasta sauce. "What are you making?" Into the bathroom for a moment while she scrubbed off the most caked-on of her makeup. There were few things she hated more than caked on foundation and glamour. The current job was one in the fashion publishing industry, and she had learned more catty comments and turned into more of a cutthroat bitch than she ever wanted.
It was good practice, though. She'd learned all kinds of ways to insult someone and smile and be polite about it.
"What did you say you were making?" she asked again, coming out of the bathroom and drying her hands.
"Pasta puttanesca..." he told her, and then frowned when she choked and had to catch her breath between giggles. "What?"
"Nothing. I... do you know what that means?"
"Obviously not?" Frown still present, his eyebrows arched at her. She shouldn't have laughed, though it was her first reflex when something slipped languages and became incongruous and funny to her.
She came into the kitchen and stepped up beside him, sliding an arm around his waist. "It means whorehouse pasta. You know what 'puta' means, right?" Irony in her tone, there. They were living in a city with a significant Hispanic population, he'd better know what one of the more common insults slung around town meant. He nodded. Then, off her prompting, put it together.
"Oh..."
"Yeah, oh."
He snickered over the pasta sauce as she went to grab the box of bow-tie noodles from the upper cabinet. She'd been pretty sure he would find it funny, too, as soon as she'd explained it. Feathers smoothed, they settled into their routine, moving around each other in the tiny kitchen. She ducked under his arm as he reached up, starting to put the dishes away.
"Garlic toast or..." His eyes widened in approval when she held up the tube.
She grinned. "Crescent rolls."
"Nice."
She crouched down to get them in the oven, shouldering his legs aside with a gentle nudge. Over her head, noodles clattered into the pot.
And then they could sit down for five minutes or so as everything cooked, baked, rose, or simmered. Ed tugged her into his arms and leaned his back and shoulders against the wall, sighing. She nuzzled into his shoulder. "You okay?"
"Just a little tired. It's been a long week already." His fingers combed through her hair, his voice thrummed at her temple.
"Mmph. And it's only Wednesday."
He snorted. "Don't remind me. I've got a deposition on Friday I'm trying to forget about. Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll plead out or something..."
It sent a shiver crawling down her spine when he said that. Grace knew the case he was talking about, knew there was a good chance that they'd plead out so he didn't have to give testimony at the deposition, and at the same time she didn't want that. Not that she had said as much to him, but she thought, she had a feeling it was more complex than they were trying to make it be. And it could benefit from being argued out in court.
Maybe not, she told herself. Maybe it was just unnecessary expense. Maybe she'd better check on those crescent rolls before they burned.
"Pasta ready?" he asked, watching her for a second without moving away from the wall.
"Um..." she stood, hissed a little as she dropped the pan onto the two unoccupied burners, and poked the pasta. "I think so."
"Good." Slow exhale, and he pushed off from the wall with his shoulders, slogging through the dining room to set their tiny table. "God, I'm hungry."
"Good thing there's plenty of food, then." And just to be playful and silly she put the serving bowl in front of him and his plate in the middle of the table. He swapped them back out with a mock-scowl.
The part she didn't expect was where he reached across the table to take her hand in his. She looked over at him and he looked back at her as though he was going to say something, but he didn't. She blinked, frowned. Was going to say something when his gaze shifted and they started dishing out the food in silence broken only by the soft chink of flatware on ceramic. Something had happened. He had almost said something, but she couldn't for the life of her think what it was.
By the time the moment became significant again it was many dinners later, and only the fact that he had been about to tell her something remained clear in her memory.